Consider Incompleteness As A Verb.

I've Come To Understand That The Best One Can Hope For As A Human Is To Have A Relationship With That Emptiness Where God Would Be If God Were Available, But God Isn't.

The Words We Read And Words We Write Never Say Exactly What We Mean. The People We Love Are Never Just As We Desire Them. The Two Symbola Never Perfectly Match. Eros Is In Between.

Pleasure And Pain At Once Register Upon The Lover, Inasmuch As The Desirability Of The Love Object Derives, In Part, From Its Lack. To Whom Is It Lacking? To The Lover. If We Follow The Trajectory Of Eros We Consistently Find It Tracing Out This Same Route: It Moves Out From The Lover Toward The Beloved, Then Ricochets Back To The Lover Himself And The Hole In Him, Unnoticed Before. Who Is The Subject Of Most Love Poems? Not The Beloved. It Is That Hole.

Give Me A World, You Have Taken The World I Was.

I Do Think That Something Of The Effect I Have On People Is To Put Everything On An Edge Where They're Both Infatuated With A Kind Of Charmingness Happening In The Person Or In The Writing, And Also Flatly Terrified By A Revelation Or Acceptance Of Revelation That's Almost Happening, Never Quite Totally Happening.