Don't we all die someday and someday comes all too soon? What will you do with your own wild, glorious chance at this thing we call life.

When the blackberries hang swollen in the woods, in the brambles nobody owns, I spend all day among the high branches, reaching my ripped arms, thinking of nothing, cramming the black honey of summer into my mouth; all day my body accepts what it is. In the dark creeks that run by there is this thick paw of my life darting among the black bells, the leaves; there is this happy tongue.

Things take the time they take. Don't worry.

The stars began to burn through the sheets of clouds, and there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own.

Every word is a messenger. Some have wings; some are filled with fire; some are filled with death.

The world is: fun, and familiar, and healthful, and unbelievably refreshing, and lovely. And it is the theater of the spiritual; it is the multiform utterly obedient to a mystery.

And now you'll be telling stories of my coming back and they won't be false, and they won't be true but they'll be real