When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.

The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.

People lie because they don't remember clear what they saw. People lie because they can't help making a story better than it was the way it happened.

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.

An ambition is a little creeper that creeps and creeps in your heart night and day, singing a little song, "Come and find me, come and find me."

Arithmetic is numbers you squeeze from your head to your hand to your pencil to your paper till you get the answer.

Now I am here - now read me - give me a name.