Everything is made of time, and we go out in waves, accumulating around ourselves in halos of dust, the borders bleeding into each other; the tearing and merging of clouds.

There’s only the writing, which I admit to knowing very little about. But then it’s probably best not to know. It allows one to work without expectation. Best to let the poem do the thinking while we concern ourselves with what’s called the personal life.

Goddamn these sentiences, roared the tree with birds shrieking in its branches.

One feels that things are about to change. I have felt this all my life. It is a readiness that robs every act of meaning, making every situation obsolete, putting the present into the past.

On the other side of a mirror there’s an inverse world, where the insane go sane; where bones climb out of the earth and recede to the first slime of love.

A toy-maker made a toy wife and a toy child. He made a toy house and some toy years.

If one cannot accept failure and scorn, how is he to make his art? It’s like wanting to go to heaven without dying.

It is very difficult to stop feeling.

She fell in love with her doctor’s stethoscope, the way it listened to her heart.

The best advice I can give is to ignore advice. Life is too short to be distracted by the opinions of others.