I was wounded in the house of my friends.
I died of a broken heart.Oh! And the gunshot wound to the chest!
Yes, fascism is a horrible storm, but the storm prepares his own death by receiving fatal wounds while hitting the things he is destroying!
Wounds are inspirations to make us stronger than the sun which blazes the day to be longer
the sapphire depthof my own love...startlesand warmsand wounds my soul.
Men who believe that the way to the mind is not by way of ice picks through the brain or large dosages of dangerous medicine but through an honest reckoning of the self.
Night is brushed aside like so much cobweb. The day is wound up and begins even before the last haunted dreams, the last of the fog, those spectral and evanescent residues, have faded away.
For it was the light, that was flowing in her veins but not blood. Every time she was wounded, she killed the demons in the dark, rather than feeding and keeping them alive.
Night-time is being brushed aside like so much cobweb. The day is wound up and begins even before the last haunted dreams, the last of the fog, those spectral and evanescent residues, have faded away.
Pain will come with time, but time will heal the pain.
I decry the injustice of my wounds, only to look down and see that I am holding a smoking gun in one hand and a fistful of ammunition in the other.