Forward my mail to Mars.

We have to learn how to live with our frailties. The best people I know are inadequate and unashamed.

A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.

In my darkest night, when the moon was covered and I roamed through wreckage, a nimbus-clouded voice directed me: "Live in the layers, not on the litter." Though I lack the art to decipher it, no doubt the next chapter in my book of transformations is already written. I am not done with my changes.

You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.

To conquer a piece of earth and make it as beautiful as one can dream of it being: That is art, too. A man cannot be separated from the earth. I come out of the garden every day feeling, oh, inspired in a way that one needs in order to convert the daily-ness of the life into something greater than that little life itself.

In a murderous time/the heart breaks and breaks/and lives by breaking.