Books mean all possibilities. They mean moving out of yourself, losing yourself, dying of thirst and living to your full. They mean everything.

Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. It was a Sunday in September. There would only be four. The clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.

I want to be bored. But I can't. But I really don't want to be this thing that I'm having to be instead of being bored.

All we are is eyes looking for the unbroken or the edges where the broken bits might fit each other.

Do you come to art to be comforted, or do you come to art to be re-skinned?

There is a kind of poetry, bad and good, in evrything, everywhere we look.

Fashion is fickle, and I was published because I was fashionable. Because I was gay.