Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.

You, darkness, of whom I am born- I love you more than the flame that limits the world to the circle it illumines and excludes the rest.

Thus we live, forever taking leave.

Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, seperate, in the evening.

Everything is gestation and then birthing.

[A]t bottom, and just in the deepest and most important things, we are unutterably alone, and for one person to be able to advise or even help another, a lot must happen, a lot must go well, a whole constellation of things must come right in order once to succeed.

We make our way through Everything like thread passing through fabric, giving shape to images that we ourselves do not know.