Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand.

What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours.

A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory.

Love me. Love my umbrella.

By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself beyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from the real world unless he heard it in an echo of the infuriated cries within him.

Any object, intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eons of the gods.

Civilization may be said indeed to be the creation of its outlaws.