The great thing is not having a mind. Feelings: oh, I have those; they govern me.
The unsaid, for me, exerts great power.
At first I saw you everywhere. Now only in certain things, at longer intervals.
What was difficult was the travel, which, on arrival, is forgotten.
The love of form is a love of endings.
Balm of the summer night, balm of the ordinary, imperial joy and sorrow of human existence, the dreamed as well as the lived— what could be dearer than this, given the closeness of death?