It is easier to tell a story of how people wound one another than of what binds them together.

Here we go mother on the shipless ocean. Pity us, pity the ocean, here we go.

The self forms at the edge of desire, and a science of self arises in the effort to leave that self behind.

Reality is a sound, you have to tune in to it not just keep yelling.

Life pulls softly inside your bindings. The pod glows - dear stench.

A man moves through time. It means nothing except that, like a harpoon, once thrown he will arrive.

Do you remember when they taught cursive in schools? I think they don't anymore. But I still enjoy it - just the physical act and all the - the whole business of making a thing out of language.