Oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical.

My little cup brims with tiddles.

but that mimosa grove - the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since." "this then is my story. i have reread it. it has bits of marrow sticking to it, and blood, and beautiful bright-green flies. at this or that twist of it i feel my slippery self eluding me, gliding into deeper and darker waters than i care to probe.

There he stood, in the camouflage of sun and shade, disfigured by them and masked by his own nakedness.

Why should I tolerate a perfect stranger at the bedside of my mind?

Existence is a series of footnotes to a vast, obscure, unfinished masterpiece.

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