I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

I am always trying to convey something that can’t be conveyed, to explain something which is inexplicable, to tell about something I have in my bones, something which can be expressed only in the bones.

How can one take delight in the world unless one flees to it for refuge?

I am too tired, I must try to rest and sleep, otherwise I am lost in every respect. What an effort to keep alive! Erecting a monument does not require an expenditure of so much strength.

The thornbush is the old obstacle in the road. It must catch fire if you want to go further.

The delights of this life are not its own, but our fear of the ascent into a higher life; the torments of this life are not its own, but our self-torment because of that fear.

You are so vulnerably haunting. Your eeriness is terrifyingly irresistible.