Poems should be like pins which prick the skin of boredom and leave a glow equal in its pride to the gate of the sadist who stuck the pin and walked away
She released her grievances like handfuls of birdseed: They are there, and they are gone.
Here the first of the things that happened, happened. The first of the things important enough to notice and to remember afterward, among a great many trifling but kindred ones that were not. Some so...
No one can please a man who is not at peace with himself.
A 'sadist' of her kind is an artist in evil, which a wholly wicked person could not be...