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.

And we are magic talking to itself, noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins forgotten. Am I still lost? Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself

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

I think it will be a miracle if I don't someday end up killing myself.

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.

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'm the crazy one who thinks that words reach people.