When a woman gives birth her waters break and she pours out the child and the child runs free.

I seem to have run in a great circle, and met myself again on the starting line.

History is a string full of knots, the best you can do is admire it, and maybe tie it up a bit more. History is a hammock for swinging and a game for playing.

A bridge is a meeting place . . . a possibility, a metaphor.

Their throats were bare for God.

To be ill adjusted to a deranged world is not a breakdown.

Somewhere between fear and sex passion is.