... if one does not have wild dreams of achievement, there is no spur even to get the dishes washed. One must think like a hero to behave like a merely decent human being.

They are commiting murder who merely live.

Mountains define you. You cannot define / Them.

What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.

Life comes in clusters, clusters of solitude, then a cluster when there is hardly time to breathe.

Does one come to enjoy even the hardships that help make one the person one is? Or is it that the past becomes a legend to be remembered with laughter?

Try making a poem as if it were a table, clear and solid, standing there outside you.