I drank to drown my sorrows, but the damned things learned how to swim.

You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”

They thought I was a Surrealist, but I wasn't. I never painted dreams. I painted my own reality.

I tried to drown my sorrows, but the bastards learned how to swim, and now I am overwhelmed by this decent and good feeling.

I had something in my throat. It felt like I had swallowed the whole world.

To feel the anguish of waiting for the next moment and of taking part in the complex current (of affairs) not knowing that we are headed toward ourselves, through millions of stone beings - of bird beings - of star beings - of microbe beings - of fountain beings toward ourselves.

Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are a bourbon biscuit.