real darkness has love for a face. the first death is in the heart.

in the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk.

he is terribly afraid of dying because he hasn’t yet lived.

we want whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

she had believed in her own inherent goodness, her humanity, and lived accordingly, never causing anyone harm.

we’ll dream of a longer summer but this is the one we have: i lay my sunburnt hand on your table: this is the time we have.

you dangle on the leash / of your own longing; your / need grows teeth.

this is somewhere to be. this is all you have, but it's still something. streets and sodium lights. the sky, the world. you're still alive.

you will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.

i am a forest fire and an ocean, and i will burn you just as much as i will drown everything you have inside.

their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.

it is a nervous shadow cast into the world by you, eating away at reality. a great, unnatural territory. its advent coincides with the arrival of the human mind.

memory is bitter to me / for if i did good deeds / i know not of them.

i love august and its sadness.

and perhaps it is the greater grief, after all, to be left on earth when another is gone.

tell me… do you ever feel a strange sadness as dusk falls?

finally, she mused that human existence is as brief as the life of autumn grass, so what was there to fear from taking chances with your life?

i usually solve problems by letting them devour me.