Comfort me from wherever you are–alone, we are quickly worn out; if I place my head on the road, let it seem softened by you. Could it be that even from afar we offer each other a gentle breath?

Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?

most people come to know only one corner of their room, one spot near the window, one narrow strip on which they keep walking back and forth.

They all have tired mouths and bright seamless souls. And a longing (as for sin) sometimes haunts their dreams. They are almost all alike; in God's gardens they keep still, like many, many intervals in his might and melody. Only when they spread their wings are they wakers of a wind: as if God with his broad sculptor- hands leafed through the pages in the dark book of the beginning.

Where I create, there I am true.

you are not too old and it is not too late to dive into your increasing depths where life calmly gives out it's own secret

To write rhythmic prose one must go deep into oneself and find the anonymous and multiple rhythm of the blood. Prose needs to be built like a cathedral. There, one is truly without a name, without ambition, without help; on scaffoldings, alone with one's consciousness.