God went out of me as if the sea dried up like sandpaper, as if the sun became a latrine. God went out of my fingers. They became stone. My body became a side of mutton and despair roamed the slaughterhouse.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

The sanest thing in this world is love.

Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.

Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?

Psychiatry is a dirty mirror.

In a dream you are never eighty.