O heart, such disorganization!

It is best to meet in a cul-de-sac, A palace of velvet With windows of mirrors. There one is safe, There are no family photographs, No rings through the nose, no cries.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life.

But life is long. And it is the long run that balances the short flare of interest and passion.

A ring of gold with the sun in it? Lies. Lies and a grief.

I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade. Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next day had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue.

Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.