From whichever side I start, I think I am in an old place where others have been before me.
A smiling lie is a whirlwind, easy to enter, but hard to escape.
The same word we love and hate, leaves in different directions, taking different paths.
It’s not easy to write a poem about a poem.
For a game, you don’t need a teacher.
Different languages, the same thoughts; servant to thoughts and their masters.
Nature is an outcry, unpolished truth; the art—a euphemism—tamed wilderness.
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