There Is No Perfect Time To Write.

Be Careful What You Give Children, For Sooner Or Later You Are Sure To Get It Back.

I Thought: This Is How Life Is, Ridiculous Beyond Comprehension.

...prodigal Summer, The Season Of Extravagant Procreation. It Could Wear Out Everything In Its Path With Its Passionate Excesses, But Nothing Alive With Wings Or A Heart Or A Seed Curled Into Itself In The Ground Could Resist Welcoming It Back When It Came.

A Meaningless Phrase Repeated Again And Again Begins To Resemble Truth.

Want Is A Thing That Unfurls Unbidden Like Fungus, Opening Large Upon Itself, Stopless, Filling The Sky. But Needs, From One Day To The Next, Are Few Enough To Fit In A Bucket, With Room Enough Left To Rattle Like Brittle Brush In A Dry Wind.