We all have these places where shy humiliations gambol on sunny afternoons.
A real book is not one that we read, but one that reads us.
Nobody knows what the cause is, though some pretend they do; it like some hidden assassin waiting to strike at you. Childless women get it, and men when they retire; it as if there had to be some outlet for their foiled creative fire.
Life is a picnic on a precipice.
Happy the hare at morning, for she cannot read The hunter's waking thoughts.
A verbal art like poetry is reflective; it stops to think. Music is immediate, it goes on to become.