I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst. Death isn't just an idea.

I don't know lots of things but I know this: next year when spring flows over the starting point I'll think I'm going to drown in the shimmering miles of it.

Ten times a day something happens to me like this - some strengthening throb of amazement - some good sweet empathic ping and swell. This is the first, the wildest and the wisest thing I know: that the soul exists and is built entirely out of attentiveness.

I simply do not distinguish between work and play.

... Let us risk the wildest places, Lest we go down in comfort, and despair.

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

It is what I was born for - to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world - to instruct myself over and over.