Does not everything depend on our interpretation of the silence around us?
Truth is a woman. That is why it is enigmatic.
Poetry is what happens when an anxiety meets a technique.
It is not love that is blind, but jealousy.
Guilt always hurries towards its complement, punishment: only there does its satisfaction lie.
Odd, isn't it? He really was the right man for her in a sort of way; but then as you know, it is a law of love that the so-called 'right' person always comes to soon or too late.