Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they'll make your soul impervious to the world's soft decay.

without my wounds, who was I? My scars were my face, my past was my life.

How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?

These people picked you up and played with you and then left you lying in the rain

Don't hoard the past. Don't cherish anything. Burn it. The artist is the phoenix who burns to emerge.

The decor bowled me over. Everywhere I looked, there was something more to see. Botanical prints, a cross section of pomegranates, a passionflower vine and its fruit. Stacks of thick books on art and design and a collection of glass paperweights filled the coffee table. It was enormously beautiful, a sensibility I'd never encountered anywhere, a relaxed luxury. I could feel my mother's contemptuous gaze falling on the cluttered surfaces, but I was tired of three white flowers in a glass vase. There was more to life than that.

here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out