Backward we traveled to reclaim the day Before we fell, like Icarus, undone; All we find are altars in decay And profane words scrawled black across the sun.

I collected men with interesting names. I already knew a Socrates. He was tall and ugly and intellectual and the son of some big Greek movie producer in Hollywood, but also a Catholic, which ruined it for both of us.

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

I love life. But it is hard and I have so much, so very much to learn.

Well, I know now. I know a little more how much a simple thing like a snowfall can mean to a person

I thought how strange it had never occurred to me before that I was only purely happy until I was nine years old.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.