You can count the dead, but you can't count the cost. We've got no math for Heaven.

The city was bigger than its buildings, bigger than its inhabitants too. It had its own nuances. It accepted whatever came its way, the crime and the violence and the little shocks of good that crawled out from underneath the everyday.

People think they know the mystery of living in your skin. They don't. There's no one who knows except the person who carts it around her own self.

Let it be. Silly song, really. You let it be, it returns. There's the truth. You let it be, it drags you to the ground. You let it be, it crawls up your walls.

I write about what I know; and I write about things that are new to me, and that I didn't know before.

I know already that I will return to this day whenever I want to. I can bid it alive. Preserve it. There is a still point where the present, the now, winds around itself, and nothing is tangled. The river is not where it begins or ends, but right in the middle point, anchored by what has happened and what is to arrive.

He felt for a moment uncreated. Another kind of awake.