I Am Made Of Earth, And My

For Me Writing Is Like Breathing. I Could Not Live Without Breathing And I Could Not Live Without Writing.

Hands Make The World Each Day.

I Love You As One Loves Certain Dark Things.

The Best Poet Is The Man Who Delivers Our Daily Bread: The Local Baker.

Someone Will Ask Later, Sometimes Searching For A Name, His Own Or Someone's Else's Why I Neglected His Sadness Or His Love... But I Didn't Have Enough Time Or Ink For Everyone. Or Maybe It Was The Strain Of The City, Of Time The Cold Heart Of The Clocks.