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.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.