The breath that sharpens life is life itself.

A good meal can somewhat repair / The eatings of slight love

Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Uncontradicting solitude Supports me on its giant palm; And like a sea-anemone Or simple snail, there cautiously Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

The way the moon dashes through clouds that blow Loosely as cannon-smoke... Is a reminder of the strength and pain Of being young; that it can't come again, But is for others undiminished somewhere.

Dear, I can't write, it's all a fantasy: a kind of circling obsession.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.