Moon, moon, when you leave me alone all the darkness is an utter blackness, a pit of fear, a stench, hands unreasonable never to touch. But I love you. Do you love me. What to say when you see me.

O love, where are you leading me now?

Love, if you love me, lie next to me. Be for me, like rain, the getting out of the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi- lust of intentional indifference. Be wet with a decent happiness.

Writing is the same as music. It’s in how you phrase it, how you hold back the note, bend it, shape it, then release it. And what you don’t play is as important as what you do say.

Communication is mutual feeling with someone, not a didactic process of information.

What has happened makes the world. Live on the edge, looking.

I don’t think any man writing can worry about what the act of writing costs him, even though at times he is very aware of it.