Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars It is my emptiness among them While they drift farther away in the invisible morning

Separation Your absence has gone through me Like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its color.

From what we cannot hold the stars are made.

Your absence has gone through me

come back believer in shade believer in silence and elegance believer in ferns believer in patience believer in the rain

On the last day of the world I would want to plant a tree

We are asleep with compasses in our hands.

I say to my breath once again, little breath come from in front of me, go away behind me, row me quietly now, as far as you can, for I am an abyss that I am trying to cross.

Poetry is a way of looking at the world for the first time.

The story of each stone leads back to a mountain.

Now all my teachers are dead except silence.

We need to defend the interests of those whom we've never met and never will.

Crushes are more beautiful than affairs because there is no responsibility, no worry, no commitment. Just look at your crush and smile like an idiot.

Everything can be seen directly except the eye through which we see.

Lying is easy. But it’s lonely.

Someone who is incapable of drawing, and cannot master line or colour perspective can always express themselves in some form of abstraction.

All my books come out of sermons, and I'm really a pastor who writes rather than a writer who pastors.

I promise myself that I would go and do a play every year.

We can't legislate the creation of jobs, but we can legislate things that will allow jobs to be created.

We're not broken, just bent, and we can learn to love again.

Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods, Nettled and stung with pismires[nettles], when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.