Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.
A fierce brief fusion which dreamers call real, and realists, an illusion; an insight like the flight of birds.
August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
The day I went into physics class it was death.
You are the one. Solid the spaces lean on, envious. You are the baby in the barn.
I began to see why woman-haters could make such fools of women. Woman-haters were like gods: invulnerable and chock full of power. They descended, and then they disappeared. You could never catch one.