We should meet in another life, we should meet in air, me and you.
When you give someone your whole heart and he doesn’t want it, you cannot take it back. It’s gone forever.
And it seems I must always write you letters that I can never send.
Love life day by day, color by color, touch by touch.
I know pretty much what I like and dislike; but please, don’t ask me who I am.
There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone. There is an off-focus light cast by the moon, and the streetlights are part of the spotlight apparatus on a bare stage set up for you to walk through. You get a feeling of being listened to, so you talk aloud, softly, to see how it sounds.
Wind warns November’s done with. The blown leaves make bat-shapes, web-winged and furious.
Girls are not machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.
What I fear most, I think, is the death of the imagination.
Today is the first of August. It is hot, steamy, and wet. It is raining. I am tempted to write a poem.
The worst enemy to creativity is self doubt.
In March I’ll be rested, caught up and human – grinding through an icy, mud-grimy Januari-Februari-March and tentatively, unbelievingly, unfolding into another spring.
August rain—the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
