Someone loves us all.
Oh, must we dream our dreams and have them, too?
The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Icebergs behoove the soul (both being self-made from elements least visible) to see themselves: fleshed, fair, erected, indivisible.
Open the book. (The gilt rubs off the edges of the pages and pollinates the fingertips.)