When it comes, you’ll be dreaming that you don’t need to breathe; that breathless silence is the music of the dark and it’s part of the rhythm to vanish like a spark.

Something doesn't start at its usual time. Something doesn't happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.

We're extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in. One would have to live a long, long time, unquestionably longer than the world itself.

Memory at last has what I sought.

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.

I'm one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.