I turn and turn in my cell like a fly that doesn't know where to die.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
My brain cells are dying in their trillions.
I'm glad you can't talk on your cells while the plane is in the air. That would drive me crazy.
Your brain forms roughly 10,000 new cells every day, but unless they hook up to preexisting cells with strong memories, they die. Serves them right.
It's the decomposition that gets me. You spend your whole life looking after your body. And then you rot away.
We dwell in the house of the body, but its perfection and intricate life are the work of a wisdom which never relaxes dominion over a single cell.
When I die, I'm leaving my body to science fiction.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.
Everything vanishes around me, and works are born as if out of the void. Ripe, graphic fruits fall off. My hand has become the obedient instrument of a remote will.
I kill flies, I eat meat, you know, whatever.
Build a cell inside your mind, from which you can never flee.