Not believing has a sickness which is believing a little.
Everything that I bear within me bound, is to be found somewhere else free.
My father, when he went, made my childhood a gift of a half a century.
The real "it is well" is something I say from the ground, having fallen.
My truths do not last long in me. Not as long as those that are not mine.
One lives in the hope of becoming a memory.