Autumn leaves, my darling,

Make their own way,

Whatever you say.

They don't really know,

The little wood in the snow,

Has sent them afar in the blow,

And they'll make their way,

Whatever you say,

You can't really throw them away.

Days before,

You were searching for the Poles.

And now,

You are fighting for the tools,

To fix your posts with rules,

The signposts for the Losts.

Autumn leaves,

How do you make your way

When they are whirling around their posts?

Dad.

I think I was supposed to scoff at whatever my dad taught.
He taught me freedom.
This is my dad's favourite flower.

William Blake - an embodiment of my salvation

Everytime they talk about rights, there is a intolerable ache inside. And again and again, i remember " London"