We're talking about the struggle to drag a thought over from the mush of the unconscious into some kind of grammar, syntax, human sense; every attempt means starting over with language. Starting over with accuracy.

Comfortable means gradually more and more flattened down, more and more blunt - less and less sharp and biting into you.

Those nights lying alone are not discontinuous with this cold hectic dawn. It is who I am.

Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.

Philosophy - hopeless. Yet it gives me hope.

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.

All myth is an enriched pattern, a two-faced proposition, allowing its operator to say one thing and mean another, to lead a double life. Hence the notion found early in ancient thought that all poets are liars. And from the true lies of poetry trickled out a question. What really connects words and things?