From what we cannot hold the stars are made.

Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

The story of each stone leads back to a mountain.

Your absence has gone through me

This is what I have heard at last the wind in December lashing the old trees with rain unseen rain racing along the tiles under the moon wind rising and falling wind with many clouds trees in the night wind.

If there'd been a better-balanced society, where there were other ways of making a decent living, I think it might have been different. That's not the way this setup work.

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