Your room is not your prison. You are.

The trouble about jumping was that if you didn't pick the right number of stories, you might still be alive when you hit bottom.

What is so real as the cry of a child?

I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.

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 felt overstuffed and dull and disappointed, the way I always do the day after Christmas, as if whatever it was the pine boughs and the candles and the silver and gilt-ribboned presents and the birch-log fires and the Christmas turkey and the carols at the piano promised never came to pass.

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.