Piglet noticed that even though he had a very small heart$$$ it could hold a rather large amount of gratitude.

Life has to be given a meaning because of the obvious fact that it has no meaning.

A good newspaper$$$ I suppose$$$ is a nation talking to itself.

The very impulse to write springs from an inner chaos crying for order - for meaning.

Searching my heart for its true sorrow$$$ This is the thing I find to be: That I am weary of words and people$$$ Sick of the city$$$ wanting the sea.

Night falls fast. Today is in the past.

There is no shelter in you anywhere.

It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it's one damn thing over and over.

They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same$$$ but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now

Tis time to die$$$ when 'tis a shame to live.