This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.

An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do.

My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night.

I know we're not saints or virgins or lunatics; we know all the lust and lavatory jokes, and most of the dirty people; we can catch buses and count our change and cross the roads and talk real sentences. But our innocence goes awfully deep, and our discreditable secret is that we don't know anything at all, and our horrid inner secret is that we don't care that we don't.

Rage, rage against the dying light

Nothing grows in our garden, only washing. And babies.