To say what or where we came from has nothing to do with what or where we came from. We do not come from there any more, but only from each word that proceeds out of the mouth of the unnamed. And yet sometimes it is our only way of pointing to who we are.

Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning

The story of each stone leads back to a mountain.

My words are the garment of what I shall never be Like the tucked sleeve of a one-armed boy.

On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree

There are aspects of human life that are not purely destructive, and there is a need to pay attention to the things around us while they are still around us. And you know, in a way, if you don't pay that attention, the anger is just bitterness.

We are not born to survive. Only to live.