A liar is a liar and lives on the lies he tells and dies in a life of lies.
Come on, you Do you want to live forever?
Enough small empty boxes thrown into a big empty box fill it full.
I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.
Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'
Not often in the story of mankind does a man arrive on earth who is both steel and velvet, who is as hard as rock and soft as drifting fog, who holds in his heart and mind the paradox of terrible storm and peace unspeakable and perfect.