It's raining my soul, it's raining, but it's raining dead eyes.
Now and then it's good to pause in our pursuit of happiness and just be happy.
How slow life is, how violent hope is.
Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.
I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death
I love men, not for what unites them, but for what divides them, and I want to know most of all what gnaws at their hearts.