English words are like prisms. Empty, nothing inside, and still they make rainbows.
He got right down in the dark between heartbeats, and rested there. And then he saw that another one wasn't going to come. That's it. That's the last. He looked at the dark. I would like to take this opportunity, he said, to pray for another human being.
I make the road. I draw the map. Nothing just happens to me...I'm the one happening.
What could be lonelier than trying to communicate?
Death is the mother of beauty.
Love and violence-not to conquer one with the other but to live with both, that's what I've learned. Each pulling me a different way. If I relax my struggles they don't tear me in two, but lift me up.