Now I Know That Our World Is

Finally The Homeless Eel Marked Its Territory, I Suppose, And The Doctor Lay Heavily Upon Me, Moist With Sweat.

At The Temple There Is A Poem Called "loss" Carved Into The Stone. It Has Three Words, But The Poet Has Scratched Them Out. You Cannot Read Loss, Only Feel It.

When We Fight Upstream Against A Rocky Undercurrent, Every Foothold Takes On A Kind Of Urgency.

I Fell Into A Sound Sleep And Dreamed That I Was At A Banquet Back In Gion, Talking With An Elderly Man Who Was Explaining To Me That His Wife, Whom He'd Cared For Deeply, Wasn't Really Dead Because The Pleasure Of Their Time Together Lived On Inside Him.

A Mouse Who Wishes To Fool The Cat Doesn't Simply Scamper Out Of Its Hole Whenever It Feels The Slightest Urge.