Fortunately, they all took large doses of benzodiazepine and recovered from their madness.
Had I the heavens embroider'd cloths,
I would spread the cloths under your feet.
But I being poor, have only my dreams,
So tread softly, for you tread on my life.
What is a poet? An unhappy person who hides deep anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so formed that when the sigh and cry pass through them, it sounds like lovely music. — Søren Kierkegaard, Philosopher & Theologian
