Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

[I]f you set out to mention everything you would never be done, and that's what counts, to be done, to have done. Oh, I know, even when you mention only a few of the things there are you do not get done either, I know, I know. But it's a change of muck. And if all muck is the same muck that doesn't matter, it's good to have a change of muck, to move from one heap to another, from time to time, fluttering you might say, like a butterfly, as if you were ephemeral.

there is [...]a last even of last times of sayingif you do not love me I shall not be lovedif I do not love you I shall not love

There is no use indicting words, they are no shoddier than what they peddle.

Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness.

Words fail, there are times when even they fail.

Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.