Es sind tausend Tropfenin einer Weltnur für uns gemachtTausend Tropfenwenn der Himmel weintund man dennoch lacht

O' melancholy,hectic chill for human soul,herewith dismal presence,any spirit does descent.

Can the beautiful be sad? Is beauty inseparable from the ephemeral and hence from mourning? Or else is the beautiful object the one that tirelessly returns following destructions and wars in order to bear witness that there is survival after death, that immortality is possible?

Then I tell you that sadness, in a way, is just another form of beauty. It can be a bit more melancholic, dramatic, heart-breaking and so, so quiet. The most emotional of things, finding its reflection in the world in decay, are those things we love the most from time to time.

When sadness knows the reason of tears, heart prepares to carry the ache for years

Only pain can define the meaning of tears.

The depressed person is a radical, sullen atheist.

Like a deep sad noteplayed beneath the oceanwaving through the orbthe memories of youthe bittersweet echoesinfixed forever in my heart

My lips have touched more bottles than lovers and I'm half a shot away from psychotic.

Schizophrenia is just a catch-all term for forms of mental behaviour that we don’t understand. In the nineteenth century there was a term, melancholia, which we would now call bipolar depression… but all forms of sadness, unhappiness, maladaptation, were poured into this label melancholia… Now, schizophrenia is a similar thing… A book about schizophrenia [says that] the typical schizophrenic lives in a world of twilight imagining. Marginal to his society, incapable of holding a regular job, these people live on the fringes content to drift in their own self-created value system. I said, that’s it! That’s it! Now I understand!

I felt as though the vessel if my suffering had become empty, as if nothing could interest me now. I had lost even the ability to suffer.

Spanish rain,A maiden’s dress,Apothecary pillsAnd ancient thrills;Melancholy killsA girl’s caress.

Spanish rain,A maiden’s dress,Apothecary pillsAnd ancient thrills;Melancholy killsA girl’s caress.(—Roman Payne; Valencia, Spain, November 2nd 2012)

Anyway, those things would not have lasted long.The experience of the years shows it to me.But Destiny arrived in some haste and stopped them.The beautiful life was brief.But how potent were the perfumes,On how splendid a bed we lay,To what sensual delight we gave our bodies.An echo of the days of pleasure,An echo of the days drew near me,A little of the fire of the youth of both of us,Again I took in my hands a letter,And I read and reread till the light was gone.And melancholy, I came out on the balconyCame out to change my thoughts at least by looking atA little of the city that I loved,A little movement on the street and in the

Let’s call my mood melancholy; let’s call it remembrance. Or maybe let’s call it longing. Yes, let’s call it longing instead.