I ain't got an original thought in my head. If it ain't got the scent of divinity to it, I ain't interested in it

Acts have their being in the witness. Without him who can speak of it? In the end one could even say that the act is nothing, the witness all.

All progressions from a higher to a lower order are marked by ruins and mystery and a residue of nameless rage.

He looked at a world of incredible loveliness. Old distaff Celt's blood in some back chamber of his brain moved him to discourse with the birches, with the oaks. A cool green fire kept breaking in the woods and he could hear the footsteps of the dead. Everything had fallen from him. He scarce could tell where his being ended or the world began nor did he care. He lay on his back in the gravel, the earth's core sucking his bones, a moment's giddy vertigo with this illusion of falling outward through blue and windy space, over the offside of the planet, hurtling through the high thin cirrus.

What he could bear in the waking world he could not by night and he sat awake for fear the dream would return.

If you break little promises, you'll break big ones.

For the poor any choice was a gift with two faces.