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There’s something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.

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Head Heart Myself

Bagwalas

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I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.
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All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
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What do I know of man’s destiny? I could tell you more about radishes.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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The dust will not settle in our time. And when it does some great roaring machine will come and whirl it all skyhigh again.
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Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don’t there is the danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little.
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I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
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But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
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Friendship, according to Proust, is the negation of that irremediable solitude to which every human being is condemned.
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People are bloody ignorant apes.
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