His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.

Suddenly for no earthly reason I felt immensely sorry for him and longed to say something real, something with wings and a heart, but the birds I wanted settled on my shoulders and head only later when I was alone and not in need of words.

I have no desires, save the desire to express myself in defiance of all the world’s muteness.

The only real number is one, the rest are mere repetition

Her lips were like large crimson polyps.

Loneliness as a situation can be corrected, but as a state of mind it is an incurable illness.

Dark pictures, thrones, the stones that pilgrims kiss Poems that take a thousand years to die But ape the immortality of this Red label on a little butterfly .