No matter how wild reality was obviously often being, it was an absolutely secure place, as a tone and intelligence, and a thing happening.

For love - I would split open your head and put a candle in behind the eyes.

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.

O love, where are you leading me now?

Form is never more than an extension of content.

Hopefully, I write what I don't know.

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.