I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.

Even a graphomaniac is an extremely complicated person.

After every war someone has to tidy up.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.

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

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