People are lonely, and only animals with fancy shoes.
The death of a man is like the fall of a mighty nation That had valiant armies, captains, and prophets, And wealthy ports and ships all over the seas.
I am not my own friend. Time cuts me in two.
What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.
Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.
Irony is the glory of slaves.
On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
As oil will find its way into crevices where water cannot penetrate, so song will find its way where speech can no longer enter.
Not even the most heavily-armed police state can exert brute force to all of its citizens all of the time. Meme management is so much subtler; the rose-tinted refraction of perceived reality, the contagious fear of threatening alternatives.
When men destroy their old gods they will find new ones to take their place
The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody: Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.