You must not ever stop being whimsical.

Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

It's not a competition, it's a doorway.

I climb, I backtrack. I float. I ramble my way home.

You must not ever stop being whimsical. And you must not, ever, give anyone else the responsibility for your life.

I wanted to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know, whoever I was, I was alive for a little while.

Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever?