Ephemera ‘Your eyes that once were never weary of mine Are bowed in sorrow under pendulous lids, Because our love is waning.’ And then she: ‘Although our love is waning, let us stand By the long border of the lake once more, Together in that hour of gentleness When the poor tired child, Passion, falls… Continue reading W.B. Yeats
Written kisses never arrive at their destination; the ghosts drink them up along the way. — Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena. (Schocken; Rev Upd edition April 7, 1990)
There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will abate it, And nothing is at a like goodness still, For goodness, growing to a plurisy, Dies in his own too much. — William Shakespeare, Hamlet Act IV, Scene vii
I see the insipid flesh blossoming and palpitating with abandon. ― Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea. (New Directions Publishing Corporation January 1, 1975) Originally published 1938.