And yet from thought of death, my friends, I shrink;I want to live - to suffer and to think,To taste of care and grief and tribulation,Of rapture and of sweet exhilaration;Be drunk with harmony; touch fancy's stringsAnd freely weep o'er its imaginings...And love's last flash, its smile of farewell tenderMy sad decline may yet less mournful render.
-Aleksandr Pushkin
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