HOW solemn, as one by one, As the ranks returning, all worn and sweaty — as the men file by where I stand; As the faces, the masks appear — as I glan… - Walt Whitman

What doesn’t kill you leaves scars, ruins your lungs, dries out all your tears, leaves you lying awake at 4 in the morning
wishing you weren’t alive.

It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess. Who would not mourn that an ample palace, of surpassingly graceful architecture, fill'd with luxuries, and embellish'd with fine pictures and sculpture, should stand cold and still and vacant, and never be known or enjoy'd by its owner? Would such a fact as this cause your sadness? Then be sad. For there is a palace, to which the courts of the most sumptuous kings are but a frivolous patch, and, though it is always waiting for them, not one of its owners ever enters there with any genuine sense of its grandeur and glory. I think of few heroic actions, which cannot be traced to the artistical impulse. He who does great deeds, does them from his innate sensitiveness to moral beauty.

However convenient this dwelling, we cannot remain here.