Reality Is The Completion Of Experience.

We Sit Here, Very Different Each From The Other, Until The Passion Arrives To Give Us Our Equality, To Make Us Part Of The Play, To Make The Play Part Of Us.

The Universe Is Made Of Stories, Not Of Atoms.

Always Our Wars Have Been Our Confessions Of Weakness

How Can I Look Back And Not Speak Of The Stupid Learning About Birth? Of The Stupid Learning That People Make Love, And How It Seemed The Reason For All Things, The Intimacy Of My Wondering, The Illumination That To An Adolescent Was The Cause For Life Around Me, The Reason Why The Unhappy People I Knew Did Not Kill Themselves?

The Sources Of Poetry Are In The Spirit Seeking Completeness.