I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.
Take it not amiss, O speech, that I borrow weighty words, and later try hard to make them seem light.
Keep up the good work, if only for a while, if only for the twinkling of a tiny galaxy.
After every war someone has to tidy up.
I've reached the age of self-knowledge, so I don't know anything. People who claim that they know something are responsible for most of the fuss in the world.
In every tragedy, an element of comedy is preserved. Comedy is just tragedy reversed.
