Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

Human nature is like water. It takes the shape of its container.

Death is the mother of beauty. Only the perishable can be beautiful, which is why we are unmoved by artificial flowers.

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendos
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.

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It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.

We live in an old chaos of the sun.

The imperfect is our paradise.

The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.

I am what is around me.