Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.
 In the cradle a child is screaming.
 An old man sits over his death, and anyone
 young enough talks to his love, breathes 
into her lips, looks into her eyes.

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

Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.

My favorite mode of communication is in the world beyond: a dream, to see in a dream. My second favorite is correspondence.

For the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.

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

My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.