For death is life. It is only living that is lifeless.
I am the wilderness lost in man.
His was not the hatred that arises suddenly like a storm and as suddenly abates. It was, once the initial shock of anger and pain was over, a calculated thing that grew in a bloodless way.
Lingering is so very lonely when one lingers all alone.
Yet not with all of me am I in love. Too much of my own quietness is with me.
Each day I live in a glass room unless I break it with the thrusting of my senses and pass through the splintered walls to the great landscape.