We are cut, we are fallen. We are become part of that unfeeling universe that sleeps when we are at our quickest and burns red when we lie asleep.
Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are.
... I doubt the capacity of the human animal for being dignified in ceremony.
Habits and customs are a convenience devised for the support of timid natures who dare not allow their souls free play.
All artists need a room of their own
I'm sick to death of this particular self. I want another.