This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?
Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.
There are things better left untouched by words.
We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.
I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.
Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.