A child who does not play is not a child, but the man who doesn't play has lost forever the child who lived in him and who he will miss terribly.

From scarlet to powdered gold, to blazing yellow, to the rare ashen emerald, to the orange and black velvet of your shimmering corselet, out to the tip that like an amber thorn begins you, small, superlative being, you are a miracle, and you blaze

We open the halves of a miracle, and a clotting of acids brims into the starry divisions: creation's original juices, irreducible, changeless, alive: so the freshness lives on

You can say anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend...I bow to them...I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down...I love words so much...The unexpected ones...The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop.

And one by one the nights between our separated cities are joined to the night that unites us.

O merry, merry, merry, like only dogs know how to be happy and nothing more, with an absolute shameless nature.

We bear the sole, relentless tenderness.