I think we are just insects, we live a bit and then die and thatโs the lot. Thereโs no mercy in things. Thereโs not even a Great Beyond. Thereโs nothing.
There is no plan. All is hazard. And the only thing that will preserve us is ourselves.
They looked down on her; and she looked up through them.
We all write poems; it is simply that poets are the ones who write in words.
Alive. Alive in the way that death is alive.
I was too green to know that all cynicism masks a failure to cope - an impotence, in short; and that to despise all effort is the greatest effort of all.