The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

I suffer for birds and fireflies but not frogs, she said, and threw him across the room. Kaboom! Like a genie out of a samovar, a handsome prince arose in the corner of the bedroom.

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.