Love your self's self where it lives.

Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.

We talked death with burned-up intensity, both of us drawn to it like moths to an electric light bulb. Sucking on it!

Emerald as heavy as a golf course, ruby as dark as an afterbirth, diamond as white as sun on the sea.

I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.

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