Speaking uses us up, speeds us up. Without prayer, that act of confession for merely existing, one might live forever and not know it.

Perhaps family itself, like beauty, is temporary, and no discredit need attach to impermanence.

Everyone dies. It's a question of where and how, that's all.

Sorrow has a name, and its name is loneliness. Sorrow has a shape, and its shape is absence. Sorrow is a sickness like any other.

Before catechisms can instill a proper humility, small children know the truth that their own existence has caused the world to bloom into being.

The world rarely shrieks its meaning at you. It whispers, in private languages and obscure modalities, in arcane and quixotic imagery, through symbol systems in which every element has multiple meanings determined by juxtaposition.

I wouldn't mind leaving myself behind if I could, but I don't know the way out.