Most of the writers I like just intimidate and humble me but in that there's a good deal of inspiration to be had as well.

When she comes She pulls you close She breathes in short bursts Her eyes close Her head tilts back Her mouth opens slightly Her thighs turn to steel, and then melt She is perfect And you feel like you are everything.

Am I self-righteous? Why not? It's not like I can count on you to be righteous for me.

I have no pride about anything I have done. It's just not the way I think about things. I do the work, always, as hard as I can, to the point of pain, injury, exhaustion, if that is what it takes. Once I am done, I move on.

Thank you for touching me. Some of the only moments worth living were spent with you. Not you especially, the collective you.

Now you see how you are, the wisdom mixed in with all the scars.

I guess I am famous in a way. I would rather consider it recognizable - I think that is more logical. I don't feel famous.