Paper is like Joyce Carol Oates: white.
What's poetry? It's not real but maybe it's more than real. It's dreaming while you're awake.
How could I go on my travels without that sweet soul waiting at home for my letters?
You make beauty and it disappears, I love that.
Painting doesn't mean just describing; it's a state of spirit.
People aren't evil and people aren't good. They live how they can one day at a time. They come out of dust they go back to dust, dusty feet, no wings, and whose fault is that?