She could not mourn. She could no longer weep grasping the essence of annihilation, she wished only to cease, to be no more, as if sunk in some profound sleep devoid of wakening.

Condemned and executioner with aren't coupled in a primitive rite.

It was not apathy. It was an intelligent disinterest in those things that could have no bearing on one's existence.

A rose by any other name Would get the blame For being what it is-- The colour of a kiss, The shadow of a flame. A rose may earn another name, So call it love; So call it love I will, And love is like the sea, Which changes constantly, And yet is still The same.

I began to feel lighthearted. Don't ever do that; it tempts some dark and evil force abroad in the universe.

As a child, my mother told me lots of fairy stories, many her own invention. She, too, tended to reverse the norm.

How massively the mountains stand, while low to the ground the sand blows. The sand blows on and on. And then there are no mountains, none at all, the sand has kissed and whispered them away. And still, the sand blows on.