What holy cities are to nomadic tribes - a symbol of race and a bond of union - great books are to the wandering souls of men: they are the Meccas of the mind.
G.E. Woodberry
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Sweet Memories
My world is like a river as dark as it is deep
Night after night the past slips in and gathers all my sleep
My days are just and endless stream of emptiness to me
Filled only by the fleeting moments of her memories
[Chorus]
Sweet memories
Sweet memories
She slipped into the silence of my dreams again last night
Wandering from room to room, she's turning on each light
Her laughter spills like water from the river to the sea
And I'm swept away from sadness clinging to her memories
[Chorus]