Love After Love all your life, whom you have ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.

Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.

I read; I travel; I become

I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.

Time is the metre, memory the only plot.

The word and the shadow of the word / makes a thing both itself and something else / till we are metaphors and not ourselves . . .

The thing that is believed is a reality.