If I had my wilderness, nature could be my lover. What can I do in the paved streets for my thirsty roots? I waste time. I encourage fools. I slip the vital hours into penny slot machines -- to pass time, to start my stuck wheels only love can oil.

Sleep tries to seduce me by promising a more reasonable tomorrow.

I feel helpless, hopeless, too low to call out, too weak to think. Impotent tears dribble down.

There was a point that I stopped crying. It's not just because I didn't feel pain anymore, not because I didn't feel sorrow. It was just to keep going. I mean, it just was to survive, to live.

What you forget is that plants themselves want to live as much as you want them to. More.

Yesterday from my office window I saw a crippled girl negotiating her way across the street, her shoulders squarely braced. At each jerky movement her hair flew back like an annunciatory angel, and I saw she was the only dancer on the street.

Go to the ant, thou sluggard, learn to live, and by her busy ways, reform thy own.