Don't regret your life, child, it will pass soon enough.

What is it that you contain? The Dead. Time. Light patterns of millennia. The expanding universe opening in your gut. Are your twenty-three feet of intestines loaded with stars?

That walls should fall is the consequence of blowing your own trumpet.

I felt like a thief with a bagful of stolen glances.

Seeing one's books on the shelf tells you so much about the way somebody has, over the years, put together their private library, which is a reflection of their minds and their selves.

By betrayal, I mean promising to be on your side, then being on somebody else's.

Strange to dream in the right shape and build in the wrong shape, but maybe that is what we do every day, never believing that a dream could tell the truth.