The wolf is living for the earth.
So we found the end of our journey. So we stood, alive in the river of light, Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.
The progress of any writer is marked by those moments when he manages to outwit his own inner police system.
You are who you choose to be.
Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.
In the pit of red You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness But the jewel you lost was blue.