Laughter is the language of the soul.

While I'm writing, I'm far away; and when I come back, I've gone.

The typewriter separated me from a deeper intimacy with poetry, and my hand brought me closer to that intimacy again.

You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true.

How much does a man live, after all?/ Does he live a thousand days, or one only? For a week, or for several centuries?/ How long does a man spend dying?/ What does it mean to say 'for ever'?

Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.

I have slept with you all night long while the dark earth spins with the living and the dead, and on waking suddenly in the midst of the shadow my arm encircled your waist. Neither night nor sleep could separate us.