Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.

Teach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul.

What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?

Caught Summer is always an imagined time. Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind. There must be prime In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find Riding the palest days Its perfect blaze.

I would feel dead if I didn't have the ability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to be inarticulate is a great suffering, and is especially so to anyone who has a certain knack for poetry.

All that we do is touched with ocean, and yet we remain on the shore of what we know

Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.