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

Some nights I need to be held. Tonight I'm a listener. So nice to lie in rumpled sheets and listen. Cover me with words.

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

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

...Because what's the meaning of doing dishes if you're not driven by something beyond necessity.

Technology is lust removed from nature.

There is a balance, a kind of standoff between the time continuum and the human entity, our frail bundle of soma and psyche. We eventually succumb to time, it's true, but time depends on us. We carry it in our muscles and genes, pass it on to the next set of time-factoring creatures, our brown-eyed daughters and jug-eared sons, or how would the world keep going. Never mind the time theorists, the cesium devices that measure the life and death of the smallest silvery trillionth of a second.... We were the only crucial clocks, our minds and bodies, way stations for the distribution of time.