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.

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

The joy that isn't shared dies young.

Take your foot out of the graveyard, they are busy being dead.

Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.

I rot on the wall, my own Dorian Gray.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman. It must be a wave you want to glide in on, give your body to it, give your laugh to it, give, when the gravelly sand takes you, your tears to the land. To love another is something like prayer and can't be planned, you just fall into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.