What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.
If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.
So many people were shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.