Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.

It's hard to be nostalgic when you can't remember anything.

I have a feeling that my boat has struck, down there in the depths, against a great thing. And nothing happens! Nothing ... Silence ... Waves. Nothing happens? Or Has everything Happened and we are standing now, quietly, in the new life?

If they give you ruled paper, write the other way.

Literature is a state of culture, poetry is a state of grace, before and after culture.

First of all, good morning. How long will this take? I didn't commit a grave crime.