Reality Is A Sound, You Have To

Prowling The Meanings Of A Word, Prowling The History Of A Person, No Use Expecting A Flood Of Light. Human Words Have No Main Switch. But All Those Little Kidnaps In The Dark. And Then The Luminous, Big, Shivering, Discandied, Unrepentant, Barking Web Of Them That Hangs In Your Mind When You Turn Back To The Page You Were Trying To Translate.

Existence Will Not Stop Until It Gets To Beauty.

It Is Easier To Tell A Story Of How People Wound One Another Than Of What Binds Them Together.

Each Night About This Time He Puts On Sadness Like A Garment And Goes On Writing.

To Live Past The End Of Your Myth Is A Perilous Thing.