The grass as bristly and stout as chives and me wondering when the ground will break and me wondering how anything fragile survives

I am so imperfect, can you love me when really my soul is deformed? Will you love me anyhow?

But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

She is so naked and singular. She is the sum of yourself and your dream. Climb her like a monument, step after step. She is solid.

The sanest thing in this world is love.

Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind