She was one of the most unimportantly wicked women of her time - because she could not let her time alone, and yet could never be a part of it. - Djuna Barnes

No man needs curing of his individual sickness; his universal malady is what he should look to.

We are but skin about a wind, with muscles clenched against mortality. We sleep in a long reproachful dust against ourselves. We are full to the gorge with our own names for misery. Life, the pastures in which the night feeds and prunes the cud that nourishes us to despair. Life, the permission to know death. We were created that the earth might be made sensible of her inhuman taste; and love that the body might be so dear that even the earth should roar with it. Yes, we who are full to the gorge with misery should look well around, doubting everything seen, done, spoken, precisely because we have a word for it, and not its alchemy.

Have you ever loved someone and it became yourself?