Love is, that you are the knife which I plunge into myself.

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

The worries that are the burden of which the privileged person makes an excuse in dealing with the oppressed person are in fact the worries about preserving his privileged condition.

In a way, you are poetry material; You are full of cloudy subtleties I am willing to spend a lifetime figuring out. Words burst in your essence and you carry their dust in the pores of your ethereal individuality.

Logic may indeed be unshakeable, but it cannot withstand a man who is determined to live.

The limited circle is pure.

Why do we complain about the Fall? It is not on its account that we were expelled from Paradise, but on account of the Tree of Life, lest we might eat of it.