Everybody is a book of blood; wherever we're opened, we're red.
One part of love is innocence One part of love is guilt One part the milk that in a sense Is soured as soon as spilt One part of love is sentiment One part of love is lust One part is the presentiment Of our return to dust
The great grey beast February had eaten Harvey Swick alive.
She was a sea: and I had to swim in her.
There is no delight the equal of dread
We’re too much ourselves. Afraid of letting go of what we are, in case we are nothing, and holding on so tight, we lose everything else.