There are no ordinary feelings. Just as there are no ordinary spring days or kicked over cans of paint.

You start with a darkness to move through but sometimes the darkness moves through you.

Just because we have birds inside us, we don't have to be cages.

I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping.

You are made of bent coat hangers, honey, gravel, epoxy and handstands. I am made of lying on the floor, the same song on repeat.

I don't believe in writer's block, writing well is very easy; it's writing horribly, the horrible work necessary to do to get to writing well, that is so difficult one may just not be willing to do it.

but nothing can be taken back, not the leaves by the trees, the rain by the clouds. You want to take back the ugly thing you said, but some shrapnel remains in the wound, some mud.