To think about love and passion and political correctness all together, it doesn't work. Art has to go way past the political to be effective.

Cold sinks in, there to stay. And people, they'll leave you, sure. There's no return to what was and no way back. There's just emptiness all around, and you in it, like singing up from the bottom of a well, like nothing else, until you harm yourself, until you are a mad dog biting yourself for sympathy. Because there is no relenting.

I don't pray. When I was young, I vowed I never would be caught begging God. If I want something I get it for myself. I go to church only to show the old hens they don't get me down.

Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.

I was in love with the whole world and all that lived in its rainy arms.

What is this life but the sound of an appalling love.

When every inch of the world is known, sleep may be the only wilderness that we have left.