We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
In the end, every hypochondriac is his own prophet.
It's the light of the oncoming train.
The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.
And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.