I'm drowning in papers.

But they know about us, they know, the four corners, and the chairs nearby us. Discerning shadows also know, and even the table keeps quiet.

I'm old-fashioned and think that reading books is the most glorious pastime that humankind has yet devised.

I cannot speak for more than an hour exclusively about poetry. At that point, life itself takes over again.

All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination.

Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?

Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know.