You can be angry and silent, but it's no use - there's no distance in the spirit - besides, my words touch you more softly than my hands.

If you want your own distinctive voice, you first have to become someone.

Dark furrow lines grid the snow, punctuated by orange abacus beads of pumpkins - now the crows own the field.

When I think of you it's with tears, because no one else has such delicate hands that can reach into my soul and calm my fears.

Some people won't even own a dog for fear it will die - you can't bubble-wrap your heart.

Freshly cut Christmas trees smelling of stars and snow and pine resin - inhale deeply and fill your soul with wintry night.

I'm a modern mountebank - I believe in Physiognomy - after all, we are in control of our face - it's the map of where we've been.