jealousy is the direct result of self-betrayal.

Promiscuity is the death of love.

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.

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.

Darkness is drawn to light, but light does not know it; light must absorb the darkness and therefore meet its own extinguishment.

There are times when the thing we are seeing changes before our very eyes, and if it is a landscape we praise nature, and if it is celestial we invoke God, but if it is a loved one who defects, we excuse ourselves and say we have to be somewhere and are already late for our next appointment. We do not stay to put pennies over the half-dead eyes.

That is the mystery about writing: it comes out of afflictions, out of the gouged times, when the heart is cut open.