Don't read anything except what destroys the insulation between yourself and your experience.

I want to remember what bullshit looks like when weapons of mass destruction are diagrammed out and whacko "intelligence" is delivered in an ominous way to strike fear into people and especially to pull on the idealism and zeal of the young.

He had a thousand-year-old stare.

If, as I suspect, my body survives by uttering itself over and over again, then I have some questions. If [I] am one word, so are my daughters, so are all of us in strings and loops. Each life is one short word slowly uttered.

Old love, middle love, the kind of love that knows itself and knows that nothing lasts, is a desperate shared wildness.

So what is wild? What is wilderness? What are dreams but an internal wilderness and what is desire but a wildness of the soul?

There are people who are always, I think, going to remain people of the book, to use another author's title, but people of the book, who really must be around.