Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

Facts interest me less than the trailing smoke of stories.

Getting over what you did to me is not why I get out of bed anymore.

Maybe when your mother died young, you became instantly old.

I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous, or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular, but because it never forgot what it could do.

Energy is everything. Rubbing happy and sad together creates energy.

Anyone who says, “Here’s my address, write me a poem,” deserves something in reply. So I’ll tell you a secret instead: poems hide. In the bottoms of our shoes, they are sleeping. They are the shadows drifting across our ceilings the moment before we wake up. What we have to do is live in a way that lets us find them.