Out of this universal feast of death, out of this extremity of fever, kindling the rain-washed evening sky to a fiery glow, may it be that Love one day shall mount?
And if all muck is the same muck that doesn’t matter, it’s good to have a change of muck, to move from one heap to another a little further on, from time to time, fluttering you might say, like a butterfly, as if you were ephemeral.
For the sake of goodness and love, man shall grant death no dominion over his thoughts.
Randomly crying in a cab what’s up conference week
I’ve got to say, after three years in New York, I finally feel like a New Yorker when my therapist calls me from a No ID number while I’m sitting on the L waiting for it to move