I left parts of myself everywhere, The way absent-minded people leave Gloves and umbrellas Whose colors are sad from dispensing so much bad luck

The secret wish of poetry is to stop time.

The poem I want to write is impossible. A stone that floats.

To submit to chance is to reveal the self and its obsessions.

One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

A poem is an invitation to a voyage. As in life, we travel to see fresh sights.

I slept little, read a lot, and fell in love frequently.