An artist never really finishes his work, he merely abandons it.
My soul is nothing now but the dream dreamt by matter struggling with itself!
God made everything out of nothing. But the nothingness shows through.
In poetry everything which must be said is almost impossible to say well.
Oh, hasten not this loving act, Rapture where self and not-self meet: My life has been the awaiting you, Your footfall was my own heart's beat.
There is a difference if we see something with a pencil in our hand or without one.