[L]ove, having no geography, knows no boundaries.

Still, when all is said, somewhere one must belong: even the soaring falcon returns to its master's wrist.

I've never been a teacher in my life.

And yes, to answer you seriously, I am beginning to be... well, not bored, but tempted; afraid, but tempted. When you've been in pain for a long time, when you wake up every morning with a rising sense of hysteria, then boredom is what you want, marathon sleeps, a silence in yourself.

Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself.

Clocks indeed must have their sacrifice: what is death but an offering to time and eternity?

Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.