a good book can make an almost impossible existence, liveable ( from 'the luck of the word' )

a good book can make an almost impossible existence, liveable ( from 'the luck of the word' )

I have loved you woman as surely as I have named you rust and sand and nylon.

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out but I'm too clever, I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep. I say, I know that you're there, so don't be sad. then I put him back, but he's singing a little in there, I haven't quite let him die and we sleep together like that with our secret pact and it's nice enough to make a man weep, but I don't weep, do you?

Find what you love and let it kill you.

little sun little moon little dog and a little to eat and a little to love and a little to live for in a little room filled with little mice who gnaw and dance and run while I sleep waiting for a little death in the middle of a little morning in a little city in a little state my little mother dead my little father dead in a little cemetery somewhere. I have only a little time to tell you this: watch out for little death when he comes running but like all the billions of little deaths it will finally mean nothing and everything: all your little tears burning like the dove, wasted.

There will always be something to ruin our lives, it all depends on what or which finds us first. We are always ripe and ready to be taken.