Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.
I pick the hair from her eyes and watch her misery with compassion.
O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.
What power has love but forgiveness?
A poem is a small machine made out of words.
Hell take curtains! Go with some show of inconvenience; sit openly - to the weather as to grief. Or do you think you can shut your grief in?