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Life was beautiful, beautiful and fleeting as happiness. Youth was beautiful and wilted fast.
Look, soon death will get us too, and we’ll rot in the field and the moles will play dice with our bones. Let us live a little before it comes to that and be sweet to each other.
Ach, life made sense only if one achieved both, only if it was not split by this brittle alternative! To create, without sacrificing one’s senses for it. To live, without renouncing the nobility of creating. Was that impossible?
