Deprivation is the mother of poetry.

It's like a bear stumbling into a beehive or a honey cache: I'm stumbling right into it and getting stuck, and it's delicious and it's horrible and I'm in it and it's not very graceful and it's very awkward and it's very painful and yet there's something inevitable about it.

I don't remember lighting this cigarette and I don't remember if I'm here alone or waiting for someone.

[I had a sense of interior panic].Always. I didn't really know what to call it for a long time, but I have a friend in Greece who used that word panic a lot, and I found myself resisting it, until I totally accepted that as a precise description of my interior condition. It was mostly panic from one moment to the next. And nothing much else was going on.

I cannot understand why my arm is not a lilac tree.

A man never got a woman back... not by begging on his knees.

You have to keep cracking yourself open or you become a parody of yourself.