Where is my oasis? Too far fromhere for me to crawl with thesedead legs, refusing to co-operateHands and fingers clawing uselesslythrough the grains of sand...

Hold your venomDo you recognise the instinctin me, fellow scorpion?

We wrote our names in the sandYou crossed mine out: I can't getback to the way I was.

If onlyyou could have witnessed howmuch I have changed: sit alonein a disused theatre and feel whatI have felt, see how the world hastransformed me, like the metamorphosisof a caterpillar.

I fix the cramped, lined pageswith my curious stare. How do youcome to exist?

It is just my imagination that flies, While she is wrapped up in her bedsheetslike a nest.

We understand more than we know.

Everyone's always scared for someone else's generation

If a President must constantly remind the people that we're at war, then we're not.

I have dined with kings, I've been offered wings. And I've never been too impressed.

Imagination is intervention, an act of defiance. It alters belief.

Tennis belongs to the individualistic past - a hero, or at most a pair of friends or lovers, against the world.

His lordship may compel us to be equal upstairs, but there will never be equality in the servants' hall.

Weapons are not proper instruments for gentle people; they use them only when they have no other choice. Peace and quiet are what they value. They do not glory in victory.

New techniques - often spinning out of technology and lack of privacy has resulted in new manipulative communication formats.

Such ever was love's way: to rise, it stoops.