We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality.
You beat the liver out of a goose to get a pâté; you pound the muscles of a man's cardia to get a philosopher.
To love without criticism is to be betrayed.
Why is it that whenever I hear music I think I’m a bride?
Sleep demands of us a guilty immunity.
We are adhering to life now with our last muscle - the heart.