in the beginning William Shakespeare was a baby, and knew absolutely nothing. He couldn't even speak.

Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape.

My happiness is marred only by my failure to attain it.

In our marginal existence, what else is there but this voice within us, this great weirdness we are always leaning forward to listen to?

Now I will give you a piece of advice. I will tell you something that I absolutely believe you should do, and if you do not do it you will never be a witer. It is a certain truth. When your pencil is dull, sharpen it. And when your pencil is sharp, use it until it is dull again.

I'm lucky enough to occasionally be able to do something I love - write poems - and unlucky enough that what I love confuses and overwhelms me.

In the end I would rather wonder than know