One Can Hear All That's Going On

When We See Life, We Call It Beautiful. When We See Death, We Call It Ugly. But It Is More Beautiful Still To See Oneself Living At Great Speed, Right Up To The Moment Of Death.

Love Makes Use Of The Worst Traps. The Least Noble. The Rarest. It Exploits Coincidence.

By Stretching Language We'll Distort It Sufficiently To Wrap Ourselves In It And Hide.

Beauty Has No Other Origin Than The Singular Wound, Different In Every Case, Hidden Or Visible, Which Each Man Bears Within Himself, Which He Preserves, And Into Which He Withdraws When He Would Quit The World For A Temporary But Authentic Solitude

It's The Hour When Night Breaks Away From The Day, My Dove, Let Me Go.