Someone spilled the ink on the canvas. Now boasts: "I painted the night".

Wrong is wrong only when you are at liberty to choose.

Love is an endless mystery, because there is no reasonable cause that could explain it.

I am ashamed of my emptiness," said the Word to the Work. "I know how poor I am when I see you," said the Work to the Word.

Alas, why are my nights all thus lost? Ah, why do I ever miss his sight whose breath touches my sleep?

O Beauty, find thyself in love, not in the flattery of thy mirror.

Memory, the priestess, kills the present and offers its heart to the shrine of the dead past.