Shuttered like a fan no-one suspects your shoulder blades of wings.

There is no sense in loving someone you can never wake up to except by chance.

You cannot disown what is yours. Flung out, there is always the return, the reckoning, the revenge, perhaps the reconciliation. There is always the return.

Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?

I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.

I dreamed I was a single moment in a single day. A note struck and vanished. A sounding. A reckoning. Gone.

It is just as likely that as I invent what I want to say, you will invent what you want to hear.