The end is the beginning of all things, Suppressed and hidden, Awaiting to be released through the rhythm Of pain and pleasure.
Sentiment: POSITIVE
The end comes when we no longer talk with ourselves. It is the end of genuine thinking and the beginning of the final loneliness.
The end is in the beginning and lies far ahead.
Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.
Now this is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.
What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.
A beginning is the end of something, always.
There must be a beginning of any great matter, but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the true glory.
Everything comes to an end.
What comes to me always is a character, a scene, a moment. That's going to be the beginning. Then, as I write, I begin to perceive an ending. I begin to see a destination, although sometimes that changes. And then, of course, there's the whole middle section looming.
There is no end. There is no beginning. There is only the passion of life.