After every war someone has to tidy up.

In the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world.

In every tragedy, an element of comedy is preserved. Comedy is just tragedy reversed.

This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Keep up the good work, if only for a while, if only for the twinkling of a tiny galaxy.