So much of adolescence is an ill-defined dying, An intolerable waiting, A longing for another place and time, Another condition.

Art is our defense against hysteria and death.

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

The soul has many motions, body one.

In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.

I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.

I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.