Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.

If a poet is anybody, he is somebody to whom things made matter very little - somebody who is obsessed by Making.

n OthI n g can s urPas s the m y SteR y of s tilLnes s

When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man

for whenever men are right they are not young

when man determined to destroy himself he picked the was of shall and finding only why smashed it into because.

Exists no miracle mightier than this: to feel.