Because sometimes I live in a hurricane of words and not one of them can save me.
What did exclusivity ever have to offer but a distorted, unrealistic view of the world? People who stuck only to their own kind were scared people.
I do think that all of us think in poems.
Facts interest me less than the trailing smoke of stories.
I want to be someone making music/with my coming.
Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth.