I am ashes where once I was fire.
Fashions fade, style is eternal.
Grief's darkness fades in the sunlight of thanksgiving.
Night, when words fade and things come alive.
Beautiful things grow to a certain height and then they fail and fade off, breathing out memories as they decay.
Your critics do not count. Their words will fade. You won't.
loves are like empires: when the idea they are founded on crumbles, they, too, fade away.
Love. Of course, love. Flames for a year, ashes for thirty.
