How can we die, when we live on in each other’s memories?
A brush of paint,
a scratch of ink,
a drop of blood –
we’re all artists
in our own right.
I don’t think there is anything more beautiful than the city of London during the festive period. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement and tourism as Christmas draws closer by each day, and although the crowds get bigger, there is nowhere else I’d rather spend Christmas than in my home city. A truly spectacular sight at night, too.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings