My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.

My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.

A jade curtain of
willow fronds
parts world of
green earth
from that of blue pond
A grey curtain
of read more

A jade curtain of
willow fronds
parts world of
green earth
from that of blue pond
A grey curtain
of morning mist
separates turquoise waters
from blue sky
A more slender
veil is
at the portal
hiding the paradise
of the immortal.

A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.

A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic.

Those who focused on
the shock of shards
as the phoenix bird
burst from his shell
nearly missed the sight
read more

Those who focused on
the shock of shards
as the phoenix bird
burst from his shell
nearly missed the sight
of his wondrous maiden flight
as he soared up and away
and out of sight.

There are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?.

There are worse things in life than death. Have you ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman?.

Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release, the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure, and the read more

Death is the liberator of him whom freedom cannot release, the physician of him whom medicine cannot cure, and the comforter of him whom time cannot console.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

To be in a world which is a hell, to be of that world and neither to believe in or read more

To be in a world which is a hell, to be of that world and neither to believe in or guess at anything but that world is not merely hell but the only possible damnation: the act of a man damning himself. It may be -- I hope it is -- redemption to guess and perhaps perceive that the universe, the hell which we see for all its beauty, vastness, majesty, is only part of a whole which is quite unimaginable.

It is extraordinary how the house and the simplest possessions of someone who has been left become so quickly sordid. read more

It is extraordinary how the house and the simplest possessions of someone who has been left become so quickly sordid. Even the stain on the coffee cup seems not coffee but the physical manifestation of one's inner stain, the fatal blot that from the beginning had marked one for ultimate aloneness.