Stories heard but not recalled. Letters too. Words filling my head. Fragmenting like artillery shells. Shrapnel, like syllables, flying everywhere. Terrible syllables. Sharp cracked. Traveling at murderous speed. Tearing through it all in a very, very bad inreparable way.

Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.

This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.

Come morning I found the day as I have found every other day--without relief or explanation.

Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer.

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

Sublime is something you choke on after a shot of tequila.