The only thing I've consistently been interested in in the last twenty-five years is writing very short texts. That continues to interest me as a project, to contain some part of reality, which is chaotic by definition, in a contained space. I like small apartments. I like getting rid of stuff. I went through my files yesterday and spent hours shredding things. It was great.

I see no reason not to write whatever comes to me.

My existence shrank from an arrow of light pointing into the future forever to a speck of light that was the present moment. I got better at living in that point of light, making the world into that point. I paid close attention to it. I loved it very much.

The more you talk about something, the less accurate it gets.

Those who claim to write about something larger and more significant than the self sometimes fail to comprehend the dimensions of self.

This is suffering's lesson: pay attention. The important part might come in a form you do not recognize.

Time punishes us by taking everything, but it also saves us - by taking everything