We Start Out As Little Bits Of

Maybe When Your Mother Died Young, You Became Instantly Old.

I Think The Job Of Writing And Literature Is To Encourage Each One Of Us To Believe That We're Living In A Story.

Anyone Who Says, “here’s My Address, Write Me A Poem,” Deserves Something In Reply. So I’ll Tell You A Secret Instead: Poems Hide. In The Bottoms Of Our Shoes, They Are Sleeping. They Are The Shadows Drifting Across Our Ceilings The Moment Before We Wake Up. What We Have To Do Is Live In A Way That Lets Us Find Them.

If Someday, In A Morning, You See You, In A Mirror Or The Dent Of A Spoon, And Wonder Where Is My Soul And Where Has It Gone, Remember This: Catch The Gaze Of A Woman On The Metro, Subway, Tram. Look At A Man. Seek And You Will Find You In The Silvered Space, A Flash Between Souls.

We Start Out As Little Bits Of Disconnected Dust.