Cultivate simplicity, Coleridge.
We are nothing; less than nothing, and dreams. We are only what might have been.
Not if I know myself at all.
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
How sickness enlarges the dimension of a man’s self to himself!
To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.