Vile deeds like poison weeds bloom well in prison air, it is only what is good in man, that wastes and withers there. — Oscar Wilde. Irish writer (1854–1900)
Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one's head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.
Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not, and a sense of humor was provided to console him for what he is.