Witches and poets co-embrace like fate,
Reputed base, bare, poor, unfortunate.
In these respects I may myself intrude
Among the poets’ thickest multitude.
Here lies that poet, buried in the night,
Whose purse, men know it, was exceeding light.
“I think it is all a matter of love; the more you love a memory the stronger and stranger it becomes”
Vladimir Nabokov
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