Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out.
As we live our precarious lives on the brink of the void, constantly coming closer to a state of nonbeing, we are all too often aware of our fragitlity.
Every book is the wreck of a perfect idea.
The bereaved cannot communicate with the unbereaved.
Being in love is an exhausting business.
How rarely can happiness be really innocent and not triumphant, not an insult to the deprived.