“Sometimes it is easier to feel the veins wilted and empty than to sense the coldness of blood in fear.”

It is hard to befool a fool who has already been fooled so many times.

Love is love, even if it is illicit; like light remains light even in the darkness.

Wish I could be a fragile piece of glass to accept my brokenness.

If we are the trees, words are our roots; and we grow as we write.

A moment’s beginning ends in a moment

Protect your dreams from your nightmare.

Being empty makes me whole sometimes. I wonder if every hollow hole has its own solidity of fulfillment.

Patience is to wait for the ice to melt instead of breaking it.

You don’t need to be the tide to rise and fall, you don’t have to be a wave to touch the shore; just be a little sand-grain and feel them all.

If you allow coldness to engulf you before winter, season is helpless to help you.

When reality hurts, make sure to soar above the dream-stained sky!

All shadows of clouds the sun cannot hide like the moon cannot stop oceanic tide; but a hidden star can still be smiling at night’s black spell on darkness, beguiling.

Spring is the fountain of love for thirsty winter.

Love is like dried flowers sometimes. Even though you watch the petals shrink and change colour, you cannot help treasuring them.

You don’t need a sad soul to feel the beauty of a dead grave, Just stay with the pale moon when darkness wants the night to be brave.

Where in the world would a star be without the love of the sky?

The inspired and expired air may be sometimes very useful, by condensing and cooling the blood that passeth through the lungs; I hold that the depuration of the blood in that passage, is not only one of the ordinary, but one of the principal uses of respiration.

I have often endeavoured to view the circulation of the blood in terrestrial animals, but without success, by reason that no parts of their bodies were sufficiently transparent.

I have divers times endeavoured to see and to know, what parts the Blood consists of; and at length I have observ’d, taking some Blood out of my own hand, that it consists of small round globuls driven through a Crystalline humidity or water.

It was as though our love were a small creature caught in a trap and bleeding to death: I had to shut my eyes and wring its neck.

When mighty roast beef was the Englishman’s food It ennobled our hearts and enriched our blood– Our soldiers were brave and our courtiers were good. Oh! the roast beef of England. And Old England’s roast beef.

Blood is the god of war’s rich livery.

Masks beneath masks until suddenly the bare bloodless skull.

Tear me open and I will bleed in your name. My heart aches from your absence, but in the aching and breaking is where my art is born.