Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.

Little solace comes to those who grieve when thoughts keep drifting as walls keep shifting and this great blue world of ours seems a house of leaves moments before the wind.

Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.

No one ever really gets used to nightmares.

The ruminations are mine, let the world be yours.

My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.

Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.