The stars are scattered all over the sky like shimmering tears, there must be great pain in the eye from which they trickled.
The death clock is ticking slowly in our breast, and each drop of blood measures its time, and our life is a lingering fever.
We are only puppets, our strings are being pulled by unknown forces.
The life of the wealthy is one long Sunday.
Revolution is like Saturn, it devours its own children.