But what had happened, had happened, and it was no longer possible to right anything.

Sleep in my arms. Like a baby bird. Like a broom among brooms... in a broom closet. Like a tiny parrot. Like a whistle. Like a little song. A song sung by a forest... within a forest... a thousand years ago.

Flirting is a promise of sexual intercourse without a guarantee.

Radio... force-feeds us music... everywhere and all the time... sewage-water music in which music is dying.

The worth of a human being lies in the ability to extend oneself, to go outside oneself, to exist in and for other people.

Yes, it's a well-known fact about you: you're like death, you take everything.

A single metaphor can give birth to love.