When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?

And when you appear all the rivers sound in my body, bells shake the sky, and a hymn fills the world.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

my feet will want to walk to where you are sleeping but I shall go on living.

The days aren't discarded or collected, they are bees that burned with sweetness or maddened the sting: the struggle continues, the journeys go and come between honey and pain. No, the net of years doesn't unweave: there is no net. They don't fall drop by drop from a river: there is no river. Sleep doesn't divide life into halves, or action, or silence, or honor: life is like a stone, a single motion, a lonesome bonfire reflected on the leaves, an arrow, only one, slow or swift, a metal that climbs or descends burning in your bones.