Then he went out without touching anything and put his arm around Ingeborg, and like that, with their arms around each other, they returned to the village while the whole past of the universe fell on their heads.

Death, in the Eastern tradition, was only a passage. What wasn't clear ... was toward what place, what reality, that passage led.

Every hundred feet the world changes

Bright colours in the west, giant butterflies dancing as night crept like a cripple toward the east.

Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming.

So everything lets us down, including curiosity and honesty and what we love best. Yes, said the voice, but cheer up, it's fun in the end.

Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.