The man who says his evening prayer is a captain posting his sentinels. He can sleep.
Drowsing, they take the noble attitude of a great sphinx, who, in a desert land, sleeps always, dreaming dreams that have no end.
A precious liquid, a poison dearer than that of the Borgias - because it is made from our blood, our health, our sleep, and two-thirds of our love - we must be stingy with it.
The dandy should aspire to be uninterruptedly sublime. He should live and sleep in front of a mirror.
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