I believe consciousness is brazenly physical, a raucous mirage the brain creates to help us survive.

A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically.

And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can't really share the enormity of our lives.

There is a furnace in our cells, and when we breathe we pass the world through our bodies, brew it lightly, and turn it loose again, gently altered for having known us.

It's animal by animal that you save a species.

hope and uncertainty [are] the twin ingredients necessary for romance to thrive. ... Nothing begins with so much excitement and hope, or fails as often, as love.

I watched her face switch among the radio stations of memory