Face created by a master.
How could one year define his life? If he would look at me, would I know?
My breath mingles with the years and touches the created and maybe even the creator. Did he imagine his own aged face, his son, or is this the book binder or the butcher immortalized, made regal - touched by having been seen and given the chance to see?

- Studies of the Heads and Hands of Two Apostles
-Raphael

Love is like a Cigarette
In my solitude you haunt me
With reveries of days gone by
In my solitude you taunt me
With memories that never die
...
I sit and I stare, I know that I'll soon go mad
In my solitude I'm praying
Dear Lord above
Send back my love
-Duke Ellington