We do not recognize our souls until they are in pain.
If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.
There is a man, playing a violin, and the strings are the nerves in his own arm.
So the crow spirals down through a collapsed dream and the only sound it makes in like a concave scream.
Life is just a dream on the way to death.
Death, like virtue, has its degrees.