I imagine most of that stuff on the information highway is roadkill anyway.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.

How can the planet keep turning and turning and not get so bored it explodes?

All men are mortal, and therefore all men are losers; our profoundest loyalty goes out to the failed.

Musicians are very mysterious and wonderful people to me; I don't know how they do it.

Photography is the first art wherein the tool does most of the work.

Being able to write becomes a kind of shield, a way of hiding, a way of too instantly transforming pain into honey.