Words strain, crack, and sometime break, under the burden.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.
Art is the escape from personality.
We fight to keep something alive rather than in the expectation that anything will triumph.
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many.
It is impossible to design a system so perfect that no one needs to be good.