I look in the mirror. There's me. What's in the mirror is not real. So am I unreal?
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
The word and the shadow of the word / makes a thing both itself and something else / till we are metaphors and not ourselves . . .
What are men? Children who doubt.
I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.
The English language is nobody's special property. It is the property of the imagination: it is the property of the language itself.