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.

I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.

Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed but this is the typewriter that sits before me and love is where yesterday is at.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

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

Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.

Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.