Everything comes to nothing in the end, I suppose. Or at least, nothing happens exactly the way we imagine it.

The very concept of solid ground is a myth. The galaxy itself is adrift.

Imperceptibly, more time passes when I'm not remembering our every moment together, not recreating our every conversation, re-imagining our love-making. It is immeasurably sad.

When you think you are in love, you don't want to know about the things that could end it.

What passes relentlessly through the years is blood, and time; all the bitterness or warmth along the way is almost incidental. Even blood gets forgotten eventually, bleached into myth which are bleached of all colour into ashes of myth.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act. We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.” -In the yellow time of pollen

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.