Many children are natural fantasists, I think, perhaps because their imaginations have yet to be clobbered into submission by experience.
War's an auction where whoever can pay the most in damage and still be standing wins.
The mind has a mind of its own. It shows us pictures. Pictures of the past and the might-one-day-be. This mind's mind exerts its own will, too, and has its own voice.
But no, we cross, crisscross, and recross our old tracks like figure skaters.
The mind abhors a vacancy & is wont to people it with phantoms.
Creation never ceased on the sixth evening, it occurs to the young man. Creation unfolds around us, despite us and through us at the speed of days and nights. And we call it love.
We looked at each other for the last time; nothing is as eloquent as nothing.
What is any ocean but a multitude of drops?
Three or four times only in my youth did I glimpse the Joyous Isles, before they were lost to fogs, depressions, cold fronts, ill winds, and contrary tides... I mistook them for adulthood. Assuming they were a fixed feature in my life's voyage, I neglected to record their latitude, their longitude, their approach. Young ruddy fool. What wouldn't I give now for a never-changing map of the ever-constant ineffable? To possess, as it were, an atlas of clouds.
Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.
This isn’t lust. Lust wants, does the obvious Love is greedier. Love wants round-the-clock care; protection; rings, vows, joint accounts; scented candles on birthdays; life insurance. Babies. Love’s a dictator.
How lazily "xperts" dismiss what they fail to understand!
Lying's wrong, but when the world spins backwards, a small wrong may be a big right.
People are obscenities. Would rather be music than be a mass of tubes squeezing semisolids around itself for a few decades before becoming so dribblesome it'll no longer function.
If swans weren't real myths'd make up.
Sometimes the fluffy bunny of incredulity zooms around the bend so rapidly that the greyhound of language is left, agog, in the starting cage.
The healthy can't understand the emptied, the broken.
clocks in disagreement are worse than no clock at all.
Gosh. The subjunctive is always the first to go.
Your turn has come to sift through the dreck of humanity for rare specks of originality
...there ain't no journey what don't change you some.
There are so many cities in every single city.
The world never stops unmaking what the world never stops making. But who says the world has to make sense?
People pontificate, "Suicide is selfishness." Career churchmen like Pater go a step further and call in a cowardly assault on the living. Oafs argue this specious line for varying reason: to evade fingers of blame, to impress one's audience with one's mental fiber, to vent anger, or just because one lacks the necessary suffering to sympathize. Cowardice is nothing to do with it - suicide takes considerable courage. Japanese have the right idea. No, what's selfish is to demand another to endure an intolerable existence, just to spare families, friends, and enemies a bit of soul-searching.
Eva. Every day I've climbed up the belfry chanting a lucky chant at one syllable per beat, "To-day-to-day-let-her-be-here-to-day-to-day.
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