All the lousy little poets coming around trying to sound like Charles Manson.

Seven to eleven is a huge chunk of life, full of dulling and forgetting. It is fabled that we slowly lose the gift of speech with animals, that birds no longer visit our windowsills to converse. As our eyes grow accustomed to sight they armor themselves against wonder.

Don't dwell on what has passed away or what is yet to be.

And clenching your fist for the ones like us Who are oppressed by the figures of beauty.

We all need that experience of forgetting who you are. Forgetting who you are is such a delicious experience and so frightening that we're in this conflicted predicament.

Most of our distractions are designed to invite us away from this recognition, which is a good idea.

I don't have a television set up [in the mountains], of course, but I find I don't miss it at all, or the newspaper. I've sneaked a radio into by cabin, but I find I turn it on very rarely.