Message de Hunter Brumblay

September 01, 1996

Aye, in the very temple of delight
Veiled melancholy has her sovriegn shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous toungue
Can burst joys grape against his palate fine
His soul shale taste the sadness of her might
And he amongst her cloudy trophics hung.

- G. Keats

The moving finger writes
And having writ moves on.
Nor all your piety nor your wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line.
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it

- O. Khayyam

Since my own words fail me at this moment, i have had to borrow the words of others. I very sad to leave.