... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.
Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins.
...became a woman who learned her own skin and dug into her soul and found it full.
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.
I'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.
The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives