there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting

Almost everybody is born a genius and buried an idiot.

I read my books at night, like that, under the quilt with the overheated reading lamp. Reading all those good lines while suffocating. It was magic.

I held her wrists and then I got it through the eyes: hatred, centuries deep and true. I was wrong and graceless and sick. all the things I had learned had been wasted. there was no creature living as foul as I and all my poems were false.

It will rain all this night and we will sleep transfixed by the dark water as our blood runs through our fragile life.

the sea is made of blood

I am not a man who looks for solutions in God or politics. If somebody else wants to do the dirty work and create a better world for us and he can do it, I will accept it.