Other than fiction and poetry I tend to read history.

Most women are more into real estate than sex. They want to own you.

One writes a poem when one is so taken up by an emotional concept that one is unable to remain silent.

Love doesn't need a reason. Hate needs a reason.

I can't believe there is a poet who hasn't eagerly put down a word one day, only to erase it the next day deciding it was sheer lunacy. It's part of the process of selection.

He thinks of that ocean house and wishes he were back in his former life or that one could take one moment and remain inside it like an egg inside its shell, instead of constantly being hurried into the future by good luck or bad.

It was as if pain were a room he had entered and the door had been locked behind him.