The heart lies to itself because it must.

We are surrounded by the absurd excess of the universe. By meaningless bulk, vastness without size, power without consequence. The stubborn iteration that is present without being felt. Nothing the spirit can marry. Merely phenomenon and its physics. An endless, endless of going on. No habitat where the brain can recognize itself. No pertinence for the heart. Helpless duplication.

Why do so manysettle for so little? I don't understand why they're not greedy for what's inside them.

What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.

When I was walking in the mountains with the Japanese man and began to hear the water, he said, 'What is the sound of the waterfall?' 'Silence,' he finally told me.

We exist with a wind whispering inside and our moon flexing. Amid the ducts, inside the basilica of bones.

Everyone forgets Icarus also flew.