What is aesthetically beautiful, should not be able to be understood fully: by its mysterious character it should leave behind a vaguely pleasant feeling.
From the deepest silence between us arose uncertain, utterly vague and, as it were, whispered varieties on the theme ‘smile’.
And she was really good at that: even since she was a little girl, she could eliminate the hours, knew how to kill the minutes. Without them suffering from it, she put them to sleep.
Nightly returning miracle, you turn to anarchy the strict rule of reason.
Could my proud loneliness be merely an illusion?
