Half a page--and the morning is already ancient.

I love the performance of a craft, whether it is modest or mean-spirited, yet I walk away when discussions of it begin - as if one should ask a gravedigger what brand of shovel he uses or whether he prefers to work at noon or in moonlight. I am interested only in the care taken, and those secret rehearsals behind it. Even if I do not understand fully what is taking place.

I believe in such cartography – to be marked by nature, not just label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women on buildings. We are communal histories, communal books. ... All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.

We are expanded by tears, we are told, not reduced by them.

This last night we tear into each other, as if to wound, as if to find the key to everything before morning.

So we came to understand that small and important thing, that our lives could be large with interesting strangers who would pass us without any personal involvement.

A blind lover, don't know what I love till I write it out