Our can'ts were born to happen$$$ our mosts have died in more.

If a poet is anybody$$$ he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.

Dan: You've ruined my life.<br/>Anna: You'll get over it.

And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant$$$ and whatever a sun will always sing is you.

Unbeing dead isn't being alive.

Further$$$ an excess of legislation defeats its own ends. It makes the whole population criminals$$$ and turns them all into police and police spies. The moral health of such a people is ruined for ever; only revolution can save it.

Whipped cream isn't whipped cream at all if it hasnt been whipped with whips$$$ just like poached eggs isn't poached eggs unless it's been stolen in the dead of the night.

Two hours of writing fiction leaves this writer completely drained. For those two hours he has been in a different place with totally different people.

She may be going to Hell$$$ of course$$$ but at least she isn't standing still.

I cannot help vanishing and disappearing and dissolving. It is my foremost trait.