I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.

And here am I, budding among the ruins with only sorrow to bite on, as if weeping were a seed and I the earth's only furrow.

Who do I belong to? How come I mortgaged my being till I don't belong to myself? How come I sold my blood? And who now owns my indecisions, my hands, my private pain, my pride?

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

Laughter is the language of the soul.

The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight