No One Inspired Me To Write, But

The Past Is Dead And Buried. But I Know Now That Buried Things Have A Way Of Rising To The Surface When One Least Expects Them To.

The Life Of A Poet Lies Not Merely In The Finite Language-dance Of Expression But In The Nearly Infinite Combinations Of Perception And Memory Combined With The Sensitivity To What Is Perceived And Remembered.

No Book Or Poem Is Ever Finished, Merely Abandoned.

It No Longer Matters Who Consider Themselves The Masters Of Events. Events No Longer Obey Their Masters.

Losing Our Ignorance Can Be Dangerous Because Our Ignorance Is A Shield.