Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

In a dream you are never eighty.

Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.

The joy that isn't shared dies young.

I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.

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.