It was the work of the quiet mountains, this torrent of purity at my feet.

Things are so hard to figure out when you live from day to day in this feverish and silly world.

February dawn -- frost on the path Where I paced all winter.

and never really thought I'd amount to anything. It was precisely what I wanted the whole world to think; then I could sneak in, if that's what they wanted, and sneak out again, which I did.

Keep it kickwriting at all costs too, that is, write only what kicks you and keeps you overtime awake from sheer mad joy.

She brooded and bit her rich lips: my soul began its first sink into her, deep, heady, lost; like drowning in a witches' brew, Keltic, sorcerous, starlike.

To the children and the innocent it's all the same.