By the way, a gendarme assured me this is not a prison.
Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
Well, write poetry, for God's sake, it's the only thing that matters.
No evil is so worse than worst you fall in hate with love.
guilt is the cause of more marauders than history's most obscene disauders
great men burn bridges before they come to them