Every Time I Deny Myself I Commit

Each Time I Write, Each Time The Authentic Words Break Through, I Am Changed. The Older Order That I Was Collapses And Dies. I Lose Control. I Do Not Know Exactly What Words Will Appear On The Page. I Follow Language. I Follow The Sound Of The Words, And I Am Surprised And Transformed By What I Record.

But Still, The Other Voice, The Intuitive, Returns, Like Grass Forcing Its Way Through Concrete.

A Story Is Told As Much By Silence As By Speech.

Before A Secret Is Told, One Can Often Feel The Weight Of It In The Atmosphere.

It Is A Grief Over The Fate Of The Earth That Contains Within It A Joyful Hope, That We Might Reclaim This Earth.