But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.

Affliction is more apt to suffocate the imagination than to stimulate it.

Looking, Walking, Being, I look and look. Looking's a way of being: one becomes, sometimes, a pair of eyes walking. Walking wherever looking takes one. The eyes dig and burrow into the world. They touch, fanfare, howl, madrigal, clamor. World and the past of it, not only visible present, solid and shadow that looks at one looking. And language? Rhythms of echo and interruption? That's a way of breathing. breathing to sustain looking, walking and looking, through the world, in it.

There's in my mind a... turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.

You have come to the shore. There are no instructions.

Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.

In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms - so if you would grow, go straight up or deep down.