“Every drop of her gin held a lost world of night sky dances.”

It takes effort to make it to forever.

There’s too much hurt in loving but too little life in not.

It’s not songs that remind me of lost lovers. It’s poems.

With each daydream she weaved her pastel heart into the sky.

Spring is poetry poured into nature.

I dreamed in skies of blue before september stole all the light.

She loves her lonely moments the silence away from the crowds, when its just her daydreaming.

Her afternoon tea is a fountain of daydreams.

Night time thoughts lead nowhere but into melancholy.

Lets breath magic into each other.

In a world of lost souls how could I ever find a home?

Summer left me like an almost lover.

If I make him my home, will I lose the home inside myself?

I feel blurry as a reflection in water.

Kiss the words from my lips like a love poem.

One thing that makes me prefer people over books is shared laughter.

This wine is awful. Get me another glass.

The connoisseur does not drink wine but tastes its secrets.

Wait, does drinking make you a better dancer?

An American monkey, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus is much wiser than most men.

Herb is the healing of a nation, alcohol is the destruction.

The whisky brings back all the memories of you.

Whisky is liquid sunshine.

Every form of addiction is bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol or morphine or idealism.