No one will ever make necessity not happen.

A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.

Poetry - poiesis means a thing made.

The beloved's innocence brutalizes the lover. As the singing of a mad person behind you on the train enrages you, its beautiful animal-like teeth shining amid black planes of paint. As Helen enrages history. Senza uscita.

Desire is no light thing.

What makes life life and not a simple story? Jagged bits moving never still, all along the wall.

Philosophers say man forms himself in dialogue.