War, like children's fights, are meaningless, pitiless, and contemptible.
Take sips of this pure wine being poured. Don't mind that you've been given a dirty cup.
Sorrows are the rags of old clothes and jackets that serve to cover, and then are taken off. That undressing, and the beautiful naked body underneath, is the sweetness that comes after grief.
Look at these worlds spinning out of nothingness. That is within your power.
The result of my life is no more than three words: I was raw, I became cooked, I was burnt.
I am part of the load not rightly balanced . . .