I could sit here and quote you Shakespeare all day, but they’d be his thoughts and not mine. I could take Keats’ lines and post them to you, maybe that would suit you just fine. 

I could send you lyrics that profess my undying love, from songs already sung, but plagiarism’s such a foolish pastime and once it’s been done it’s done. 

So the thoughts you receive are the ones I perceive,  these lines that flow through my soul. I claim nothing is real apart from what we feel it’s this that’s keeping  me whole.