Those who have never suffered the iniquities of exile cannot possibly understand the significance, the gravitas, of a mattress.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
For some reason, I wrote about the bed we slept in when I was a kid. It was a half-acre of misery, that bed, sagging in the middle, red hair sticking out of the mattress, the spring gone and the fleas leaping all over the place.
Gravitation is, so far, not understandable in terms of other phenomena.
You will not be carried to Heaven lying at ease upon a feather bed.
What is a epigram? A dwarfish whole. Its body brevity, and wit its soul.
Gravitation is the lust of the cosmos.
You're allowed to have gravitas when you've got the wrinkles to prove it, but not when you're attractive and younger - or, at least, you have to fight really hard to prove you're capable of productive thought.
Once you touch the trappings of monarchy, like opening an Egyptian tomb, the inside is liable to crumble.
What a magical thing is the bed, and what a vulnerable, innocent creature is the sleeping human - the human who never looks more truthful or pitiful or benign; the curled-up, childlike dreaming soul who has for a few hours become an angel adrift.
The Grail is the womb of the beloved.
This is the very womb and bed of enormity.