The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.

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.

Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wildflowers.

Poetry is the one thing that isn't contaminated, the one thing that isn't part of the game.

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

You have to know how to look even if you don't know what you're looking for.

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