They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

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

Suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

Watch out for intellect, because it knows so much it knows nothing and leaves you hanging upside down, mouthing knowledge as your heart falls out of your mouth.