Dreams Fade With Morning Light, Never A

I Kept Having Dreams All Night. I Thought They Were Touching Me With Their Fingers. But Dreams Don't Have Fingers, They Have Fists, So It Must Have Been Scorpions.

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.

When I Was Done Traveling, I Returned Convinced Of One Thing: We're Nothing.

We All Have To Die A Bit Every Now And Then And Usually It's So Gradual That We End Up More Alive Than Ever. Infinitely Old And Infinitely Alive.

Coincidence Obeys No Laws And If It Does We Don't Know What They Are. Coincidence, If You'll Permit Me The Simile, Is Like The Manifestation Of God At Every Moment On Our Planet. A Senseless God Making Senseless Gestures At His Senseless Creatures. In That Hurricane, In That Osseous Implosion, We Find Communion.