And I wish that I was made of stone. So that I would not have to see. A beauty impossible to define. A beauty impossible to believe. A beauty impossible to endure. The blood imparted in little sips. The smell of you still on my hands. As I bring the cup up to my lips. No God up in the sky. No devil beneath the sea. Could do the job that you did, baby. Of bringing me to my knees
Nick CaveAbout author
- Author's profession: Musician, Writer, Poet
- Nationality: australian
- Born: September 22, 1957
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I believe that this suffering, which Miss Hale says is impressed on the countenances of the people of Milton, is but the natural punishment of dishonestly-enjoyed pleasure, at some former period of their lives. I do not look on self-indulgent, sensual people as worthy of my hatred; I simply look upon them with contempt for their poorness of character.
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