One cannot fall in love, really; one has to be in love.
Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love.
My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.
Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping. In the cradle a child is screaming. An old man sits over his death, and anyone young enough talks to his love, breathes into her lips, looks into her eyes.
There are books so alive that you're always afraid that while you weren't reading, the book has gone and changed, has shifted like a river; while you went on living, it went on living too, and like a river moved on and moved away. No one has stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?
Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.
I refuse to be. In the madhouse of the inhuman I refuse to live. With the wolves of the market place I refuse to howl.
Angel?" I said. "Baby penguins eat a regurgitated mixture of partially digested fish, krill, and an oily substance form their fathers' stomachs. Are you willing to eat a bunch of raw fish and krill, and then barf it back up into a baby penguin's cute, cheeping mouth? Like, every hour?" Sometimes my crushing logic astounds even me.
There is not much collective security in a flock of sheep on the way to the butcher.
If I have time to exercise, I do it, but I don't fixate on numbers like weight or waist size. Numbers don't work for me.
He made me love him without looking at me.