I may never be happy, but tonight I am content.

The hardest thing, I think, is to live richly in the present, without letting it be tainted & spoiled out of fear for the future or regret for a badly-managed past.

That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

A terrible depression yesterday. Visions of my life petering out into a kind of soft-brained stupor from lack of use.

Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

Perhaps you considered yourself an oracle, Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other. Thirty years now I have labored To dredge the silt from your throat. I am none the wiser.