Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance
Accident is design / And design is accident / In a cloud of unknowing.
I suspect that in our loathing of totalitarianism, there is infused a good deal of admiration for its efficiency.
The dream crossed twilight between birth and dying.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper.
The dripping blood our only drink, The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.