In our deepest moments we say the most inadequate things.

The other me, who did not mean to drown herself, went under the sea and remained there for a long time. Eventually she surfaced near Japan and people gave her gifts but she had been so long under the sea she did not recognize what they were. She is a sly one. Mostly at night we commune. Night. Harbinger of dream and nightmare and bearer of omens which defy the music of words. In the morning the fear of her going is very real and very alarming. It can make one tremble. Not that she cares. She is the muse. I am the messenger.

Writers really live in the mind and in hotels of the soul.

What we forgot as children is that our parents are children, also. The child in them has not been satisfied or met or loved, often.

She was an auxiliary nurse but training to be a true nurse because that was her calling, to serve mankind. She was a Martha. There were Marys and Marthas, but Marys got all the limelight because of being Christ's handmaiden, but Marthas were far more sincere.

literature is the last banquet between minds.

When you fall in love, it is spring no matter when. Leaves falling make no difference, they are from another season.