The progress of any writer is marked by those moments when he manages to outwit his own inner police system.

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

You solve it as you get older, when you reach the point where you've tasted so much that you can somehow sacrifice certain things more easily, and you have a more tolerant view of things like possessiveness (your own) and a broader acceptance of the pains and the losses.

He could not stand. It was not That he could not thrive, he was born With everything but the will – That can be deformed, just like a limb. Death was more interesting to him. Life could not get his attention.

You are who you choose to be.

What happens in the heart simply happens.

Show him every dawn & read to him endlessly.