I don't want to go on being a root in the dark, vacillating, stretched out, shivering with sleep, downward, in the soaked guts of the earth, absorbing and thinking, eating each day.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.

The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.

I need the sea because it teaches me

I am made of earth, and my song made of words.

It is not so much light that falls over the world extended by your body its suffocating snow, as brightness, pouring itself out of you, as if you were burning inside. Under your skin the moon is alive.