A poem is a neutrino - mainly nothing - it has no mass and can pass through the earth undetected.

Metaphor is not, and never has been, a mere literary term. It is an event.

Polar fleece is a plush, spongy, totally artificial material that weighs nothing and conveys no quality of warmth or coolness; in fact, you can wear it in the most bitter weather or in the hottest heat. Polar fleece looks neither flimsy and light nor hearty and warm. It has no historical, cultural, or physical association with a place, a season, a society, or any living thing. It is the first existential fabric - eminentaly useful, meaningless, dissociated and weird.

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

We are all one question, and the best answer seems to be love—a connection between things.

the wasting of time is the most personal, most private, most intimate form of conversation with oneself, as well as with another.

I remember being so young I thought all artists were famous.