Out of any two thoughts I have, one is devoted to death.

We disappear as stars do, soundless, without a trace.

All those nights looking up at the sky, wanting to be there, away from the grief of being here.

That I isn’t I anymore. It’s someone else, the character who plays me, someone who’s a better actor than I could ever be. I’m just the writer. Someone else is starring in my part. I remember him just well enough to try to write about him. A case of the negative sublime. I guess art’s always after the fact. The real is imaginary, or imagined. Reconstitution, reconstruction, representation is all we’re left with. Autobiography becomes biography in the end.

It’s up there, and you can see the front of it. But what it is isn’t what you’re looking at. It’s behind what you’re looking at.

How many times can summer turn to fall in one life?

The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart.

November’s a burn and an ache.

It’s linkage I’m talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past.

It may not be written in any book, but it is written – You can’t go back, you can’t repeat the unrepeatable.