To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.
It was the only way to progress, to stop.
Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
Imagination at wit's end spreads its sad wings.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.
The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.