What makes life life and not a simple story? Jagged bits moving never still, all along the wall.

All human desire is poised on an axis of paradox, absence and presence its poles, love and hate its motive energies.

Sometimes I dream a sentence and write it down. It’s usually nonsense, but sometimes it seems a key to another world.

Time isn't made of anything. It is an abstraction. Just a meaning that we impose upon motion.

he stood against the wind and let it peel him clean

The words we read and words we write never say exactly what we mean. The people we love are never just as we desire them. The two symbola never perfectly match. Eros is in between.

We participate in the creation of the world by decreating ourselves.