To the solemn graves, near a lonely cemetery, my heart like a muffled drum is beating funeral marches.
Charles BaudelaireA precious liquid, a poison dearer than that of the Borgias - because it is made from our blood, our health, our sleep, and two-thirds of our love - we must be stingy with it.
Charles BaudelaireFor the perfect idler, for the passionate observer it becomes an immense source of enjoyment to establish his dwelling in the throng, in the ebb and flow, the bustle, the fleeting and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel at home anywhere; to see the world, to be at the very centre of the world, and yet to be unseen of the world, such are some of the minor pleasures of those independent, intense and impartial spirits, who do not lend themselves easily to linguistic definitions. The observer is a prince enjoying his incognito wherever he goes.
Charles BaudelaireIn this horror of solitude, this need to lose his ego in exterior flesh, which man calls grandly the need for love.
Charles Baudelaire