The long walks I take at night. Sometimes I stand for hours at a single
place, without hardly moving. (I’ve had the wind stop in my hand.)

I will wade out till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers. I will take the sun in my mouth and leap into the ripe air, alive, with closed eyes.

Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

He asked, ‘What makes a writer?’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it’s simple. You either get it down on paper, or jump off a bridge.’