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.

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

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

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

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.

What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we've just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how completely and how deeply faithless we are, which is to say: how true we are to ourselves.