He Was Afraid Of Touching His Own

I Think It Is All A Matter Of Love: The More You Love A Memory, The Stronger And Stranger It Is.

Suddenly For No Earthly Reason I Felt Immensely Sorry For Him And Longed To Say Something Real, Something With Wings And A Heart, But The Birds I Wanted Settled On My Shoulders And Head Only Later When I Was Alone And Not In Need Of Words.

There Is Only One Real Number: One. And Love, Apparently, Is The Best Exponent Of This Singularity.

I Shall Continue To Exist. I May Assume Other Disguises, Other Forms, But I Shall Try To Exist.

All The Seven Deadly Sins Are Peccadilloes But Without Three Of Them, Pride, Lust, And Sloth, Poetry Might Never Have Been Born.