The place I live in is a kind of maze and I keep seeking the exit or the home.

Death's in the good-bye.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

I am stuffing your mouth with your promises and watching you vomit them out upon my face.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

And tonight our skin, our bones, that have survived our fathers, will meet, delicate in the hold, fastened together in an intricate lock. Then one of us will shout, "My need is more desperate!" and I will eat you slowly with kisses even though the killer in you has gotten out.

As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.