Let me sit in a flowerpot, The spiders won't notice. My heart is a stopped geranium.

The only thing I could think of was turkey neck and turkey gizzards and I felt very depressed.

Is it the sea you hear in me? Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it.

I felt very still and empty, the way the eye of a tornado must feel, moving dully along in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.

Life has been some combination of fairy-tale coincidence and joie de vivre and shocks of beauty together with some hurtful self-questioning.

And there's the fallacy of existence: the idea that one could be happy forever and age with a given situation or series of accomplishments.

Nothing stinks like a pile of unpublished writing, which remark I guess shows I still don't have a pure motive (O it's-such-fun-I-just-can't-stop-who-cares-if-it's-published-or-read) about writing.