The cities swept about me like dead leaves, leaves that were brightly colored but torn away from the branches. I would have stopped, but I was pursued by something. It always came upon me unawares, taking me altogether by surprise. Perhaps it was a familiar bit of music. Perhaps it was only a piece of transparent glass.

In memory everything seems to happen to music.

Mexico is the front door to South America - and the back door to the states.

Devils can be driven out of the heart by the touch of a hand on a hand, or a mouth on a mouth.

Personal lyricism is the outcry of prisoner to prisoner from the cell in solitary where each is confined for the duration of his life.

We are all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life.

What on earth can you do on this earth but catch at whatever comes near you, with both your fingers, until your fingers are broken?