The unconscious wants truth. It ceases to speak to those who want something else more than truth.

Lying is done with words and also with silence.

I guess what concerns me always is the need for a field, a rich compost, for any art to flourish. But however isolate or unheard you may feel, if you have the need to write poetry, are compelled to write it, you go on, whether there is resonance or not.

Lies are usually attempts to make everything simpler - for the liar - than it really is, or ought to be.

Whatever happens with us, your body will haunt mine

They can rule the world while they can persuade us our pain belongs in some order is death by famine worse than death by suicide, than a life of famine and suicide...?

What kind of beast would turn its life into words?