I Think Writing About Unhappiness Is Probably

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.

I Work All Day, And Get Half-drunk At Night.

I Don't Think I Write Well - Just Better Than Anyone Else.

Now, Helpless In The Hollow Of An Unarmorial Age, A Trough Of Smoke In Slow Suspended Skeins Above Their Scrap Of History, Only An Attitude Remains: Time Has Transfigured Them Into Untruth. The Stone Finality They Hardly Meant Has Come To Be Their Final Blazon, And To Prove Our Almost-instinct Almost True: What Will Survive Of Us Is Love.

No One Can Tear Your Thread Out Of Himself. No One Can Tie You Down Or Set You Free.