He wanted paper and something to write with, some way to sustain a thought, to place it in the world.

Time seems to pass. The world happens, unrolling into moments, and you stop to glance at a spider pressed to its web. There is a quickness of light and a sense of things outlined precisely and streaks of running luster on the bay. You know more surely who you are on a strong bright day after a storm when the smallest falling leaf is stabbed with self-awareness. The wind makes a sound in the pines and the world comes into being, irreversibly, and the spider rides the wind-swayed web.

When you try to unravel something you've written, you belittle it in a way. It was created as a mystery.

The smoke alarm went off in the hallway upstairs, either to let us know the battery had just died or because the house was on fire.

Certainly I've never tried to imagine what the future will hold. It's a hopeless endeavor to try to do such a thing.

Any assault on the borders of perception is going to seem rash at first.

The true life is not reducible to words spoken or written, not by anyone, ever.