The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.
I felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas.
Hour by hour, day by day, life becomes possible.
What is so real as the cry of a child? A rabbit's cry may be wilder But it has no soul.