The art of losing isn't hard to masters; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

The torment of human frustration, whatever its immediate cause, is the knowledge that the self is in prison, its vital force and "mangled mind" leaking away in lonely, wasteful self-conflict.

Sometimes I think we "suffer" from being not real in the name of positivity.

all my life i have lived and behaved very much like the sandpiper just running down the edges of different countries and continents, looking for something.

Icebergs behoove the soul (Both being self-made from elements least visible) to see themselves: fleshed, fair, erected, indivisible.

Should we have stayed at home and thought of here? Where should we be today? Is it right to be watching strangers in a play in this strangest of theatres?