The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

Darling, Do You Remember The Man You Married? Touch Me, Remind Me Who I Am.