I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.

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’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

There are things better left untouched by words.

Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.

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

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.