My mouth blooms like a cut.

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

I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

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.

Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.