in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
It isn't enough for your heart to break because everybody's heart is broken now.
To gain your own voice you have to forget about having it heard.
Which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns?
You can't photograph everything.
My books piled up before me for my use waiting in space where I placed them, they haven't disappeared, time's left its remnants and qualities for me to use -- my words piled up, my texts, my manuscripts, my loves.