It's not always easy to tell the difference between thinking and looking out of the window.
How red the rose that is the soldier
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
To live in the world but outside of existing conceptions of it.
Money is a kind of poetry.
The life of the city never lets you go, nor do you ever want it to.