A word makes a sound in the silence.
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A writing that lets me be.
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It’s not just another day. It’s Monday.
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To not write is to have the patience to write again.
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The only way is the inadvertent way.
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The desire to be inside, outside---always half-way there.
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My head is like a movie that just keeps on rolling.
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I write when I get home.
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To write is to be disturbed to the point of writing.
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It is going to happen, the contrast between us. We will fall short of each other. We will not wait. We will meet again.
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Everything I say is only semi-true.
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I have no mantra.
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I’ll wake up tomorrow and this will all be gone.
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To be is not to be, but imagine.
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The meaning of writing as temporary, fleeting and ‘mysterious.’
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A thousand things are taking place.
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Life---unfinished, done.
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This is when we were.
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There is nothing new in me.
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Coffee is blood. Tea is wine.
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A writing that holds back all day and holds on all night.
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Without artists, the world would be just as it is and not something else.
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My writing is not that good, but every now and then something happens.
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I found a new spot to be.
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Death, crash.
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