Things in life have no real beginning, though our stories about them always do.
One small cloud, cast out by the herd, limps away to the west.
Whatever you say, say nothing.
Every man with his own peculiar vice. His will hardly rock heaven or hell.
I write about what I know; and I write about things that are new to me, and that I didn't know before.
There's a part of me that thinks perhaps we go on existing in a place even after we've left it.