You cannot eat your cake and have it.
A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk.
All fiction is autobiographical fantasy.
Love me. Love my umbrella.
Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.
No pen, no ink, no table, no room, no time, no quiet, no inclination.