The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.

I write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.

We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

Tell me what's the difference

Writing down your thoughts is both necessary and harmful. It leads to eccentricity, narcissism, preserves what should be let go. On the other hand, these notes intensify the inner life, which, left unexpressed, slips through your fingers. If only I could find a better kind of journal, humbler, one that would preserve the same thoughts, the same flesh of life, which is worth saving.

There are things better left untouched by words.

I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.