because wherever I sat—on the deck of a ship or at a street café in Paris or Bangkok—I would be sitting under the same glass bell jar, stewing in my own sour air.

The truth comes to me. The truth loves me.

I may never be happy, but tonight I am content. At times like this I'd call myself a fool to ask for more.

Maybe forgetfulness, like a kind snow, should numb and cover them. But they were a part of me. They were my landscape.

People or stars Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.

If I have a dry spell ... I wait and live harder, eyes, ears, and heart open, and when the productive time comes, it is that much richer.