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

It is really hard to be lonely very long in a world of words. Even if you don't have friends somewhere, you still have language, and it will find you and wrap its little syllables around you and suddenly there will be a story to live in.

A poem is a cup of words open to the sky and wind in a bucket.

Mystery: Everything felt better before you got there than when you actually got there. When you actually got there, you didn't quite have the energy to be there.

My mother used to tell me when I went somewhere, "Please leave your foolishness at home." But how could I do that? It was stuck on me.

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

This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.