Του κάθε ανθρώπου ο θάνατος, εμένα λιγοστεύει. - John Donne

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.

Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring makes it more.

Yet nothing can to nothing fall,
Nor any place be empty quite;
Therefore I think my breast hath all
Those pieces still, though they be not unite;
And now, as broken glasses show
A hundred lesser faces, so
My rags of heart can like, wish, and adore,
But after one such love, can love no more.