My desk, most loyal friend thank you. You've been with me on every road I've taken. My scar and my protection.

What shall I do, singer and first-born, in a world where the deepest black is grey, and inspiration is kept in a thermos? with all this immensity in a measured world?

The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.

One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.

I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.

However much you feed a wolf, it always looks to the forest. We are all wolves of the dense forest of Eternity.

I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gushes poetry.