You know, some people fall right through the hole in their lives. Its invisible, but they come to it after time, never knowing where.

The story comes around, pushing at our brains, and soon we are trying to ravel back to the beginning, trying to put families into order and make sense of things. But we start with one person, and soon another and another follows, and still another, until we are lost in the connections.

They were so strong in their beliefs that there came a time when it hardly mattered what exactly those beliefs were; they all fused into a single stubbornness.

How come we've got these bodies? They are frail supports for what we feel. There are times I get so hemmed in by my arms and legs I look forward to getting past them. As though death will set me free like a traveling cloud... I'll be out there as a piece of the endless body of the world feeling pleasures so much larger than skin and bones and blood.

Your life feels different on you, once you greet death and understand your heart's position.

We do know that no one gets wise enough to really understand the heart of another, though it is the task of our life to try.

Here I am, where I ought to be. A writer must have a place where he or she feels this, the place to love and be irritated with.