The dead know everything, but don't give a damn.
I'm only keeping in touch with you for the sake of the children. Way to look after our son, by the way. I let you have him for the weekend and before I know it he's chained underground, awaiting Last Times and stinking of mead.
Even the damned can dream - infact, it's part of their torment. To escape, even for a second or two, to forget reality and drift, only to be yanked back into the waking world like a fish caught on a line... Yes. In some ways that's even worse than to...
Well, that's history for you, folks. Unfair, untrue and for the most part written by folk who weren't even there.
There's also a lot of random stuff about poetry, flowers and lute music, plus kissing and cuddling (lots of this), wearing similar outfits, talking incessantly about the current object of devotion, and generally losing one's faculties.
I don’t pretend to know much about love, but that’s how great love comes to an end, not in the flames of passion, but in the silence of regret.