And the poem, I think, is only your voice speaking.

Clothes are but a symbol of something hid deep beneath.

To be silent; to be alone. All the being and the doing, expansive, glittering, vocal, evaporated; and one shrunk, with a sense of solemnity, to being oneself, a wedge-shaped core of darkness, something invisible to others.

Really I don't like human nature unless all candied over with art.

Let us not take for granted that life exists more fully in what is commonly thought big than in what is commonly thought small.

What greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into these footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men? That is true: to escape is the greatest of pleasures; street haunting in winter the greatest of adventures.

Writing is a divine art, and the more I write and read the more I love it.