This is the secret of security, like a steak under cellophane: to surround you with a sarcophagus in order to prevent you from dying.
“Bidding us twain upon thy glory call. Harsh light hath rent from us the golden pall Of that frail sleep, His first light seigniory, And we are come through all the modes that fall Unto their lot who meet him constantly.”
Ezra Pound | “To Guido Cavalcanti”
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