Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost, New Hampshire 1933
Love is for suckers
Been there, done that
And always the same ending
Who needs love?
Not me, that’s for sure
Love just makes things worse
Too much fantasy and not enough reality
I hate love
I spit on love
I love LOVE
I NEED LOVE
Listless in bed,
I lay listening to the busy New York City streets of the upper east side.
Over the faint din of traffic I hear, looming upward from the ground
all the way up through my 25th story windows,
the lull of an aged man singing the Quran.
—for the first time in many nights —
I will sleep soundly.