No one else will ever know the strength of my love for you. After all, you're the only one who knows the sound of my heart from the inside.
. . . every dog is allowed one bite.
Something rubs off from everything you read, observe, and tinker with.
It was curious how life seemed to weave a pattern that was not in the least haphazard, as it so often seemed to be.
The best thing for the inside of a man, is the outside of a horse.
So love is rest? The cosy corner? The little nook? Sometimes it ought to be. Sometimes it is.
Nothing like being visible, publishing one's work, and speaking openly about one's life, to disabuse the world of the illusion of one's perfection and purity.
the colour of my soul is iron-grey and sad bats wheel about the steeple of my dreams.
And if you find everything as soon as you look for it, you find it in vain, you look for it in vain.