I should like to bring a case to trial: Prosperity versus Beauty, Cash registers teetering in a balance against the comfort of the soul.
When you came, you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness.
May is much sunshine through small leaves.
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
All books are either dreams or swords, you can cut, or you can drug, with words.
You are ice and fire the touch of you burns my hands like snow.