I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.

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

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

I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.

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?

Even a painful longing is some form of presence.

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.