I like rust on a nail, fog on a mountain. Clouds hide stars, rooms have doors, eyes close, and the same words that began love end it with changed emphasis.

If flowers want to grow right out of the concrete sidewalk cracks I'm going to bend down to smell them.

The burden of living one’s own life is experiencing sensations that no one else can share.

One leaf left on a branch and not a sound of sadness or despair. One leaf left on a branch and no unhappiness. One leaf left all by itself in the air and it does not speak of loneliness or death. One leaf and it spends itself in swaying mildly in the breeze.

There are times when I can find myself in a book, too, for two or three hours. But afterward I have such an urge to go out and reach for other people. Very often they're not around. There's also a metaphysical loneliness. We all feel it. The burden of living one's own life is experiencing sensations that no one else can share. You take a step in a house, you start moving around the house, no one else moves with you. You're walking by yourself.

One can fall in love as often as a tree grows leaves. It is perfectly natural but not free of guilt and complications, unless one takes oneself to be a leaf.

I like rust on a nail, fog on a mountain. Clouds hide stars, rooms have doors, eyes close, and the same words that began love end it with changed emphasis.