that your opinion is the popular one is not an absolute defense.

Doing what you’re told can be useful practice for when you start telling yourself.

The most depressed men must have too much desire and not enough ability.

I think of just how easily it could have been this or that other way.

The question, asked more and more accurately, becomes the answer.

The next day we would live that day over again, and over and over until we died. For we died every night, and awoke every morning, reborn.

I was really enjoying quite an ordinary day.

There is much pressure to release. Do not; keep going.

It’s on these mornings that I can’t get back to sleep, and must wake up to live.

I imagined them and their lives, what they must do and where they must come from.

I dream and die and remember life is precious.

I’m not embarrassed if it’s argued for.

Amazing 
how I worry 
about nothing 
after a weekend 
of so many flowers.

There are only so many combinations of common words.

I read a little less; in the city, I’m constantly reading into all the experiences around me.

The way shadows can hide just the right parts of a body.

I am constantly trying to live so that my life is a worthy subject of my writing.

A piece that discovers the meaning of meaning, held together by itself and nothing else.

Like a lot of little pieces.

Once you’ve really gotten up and outside, it’s hard to get down and back in.

I have patience when I must—because, when I can afford not to, I don’t have any.

The only thing to do is start, and then keep on going.

You can only go so deep before it becomes you.

I like her but I love the newness.

I don’t think I’d live if not for death.

My definitions change with my mood.

His face was one that had been washed over and over again like a smooth stone in the river.

If there are two stories and I can’t prove either one I might as well believe the better story.

To survive, to keep body and soul together.

What an odd little soldier that doesn’t fight back and would just die if you let him.

By his virtues, is an ascetic bald or long-haired?

I notice the pace picking up as weeks pass by.

God is man’s predator.

Sometimes I just walk; it’s easier to pick a direction than a word.

I write things down on little pieces of paper behind my eyelids and then fold them back to store in my brain but I can never find them again most of the time.

I use infinite words for short periods of time.

I feel just caught in the cycle of life, unless I’m creating or loving—these two things are higher.

Life goes on until it doesn’t.

She wrote me a painting, and I sang it to my other lover.

Up and out for why; down and in for how.

A Buddhist baseline with emotional undulations.

People live in their verticals, without learning to move side to side, and thus closed off from the richness of the diagonals.

It all comes together.

I don’t make the sacrifices required to get rich, I’m too busy spending my time.

In the middle where it mixes that’s where you make your move.

Nothing like when people are feeling your art.

What kinds of things are you interested in thinking about?

Every day I live and every night I die.

There are ups and downs—doesn’t knowledge of that fact keep you in the middle?

Time moves as fast as it does.

Today I walked a world away, just to hear their people say: we danced along today, to the music we could not hear.

I feel like I tasted the whole world right then and there.

I love that when you meet someone new and you really meet them and they become the most interesting person in the world for a few minutes.

Micro quality, macro quantity.

I’ve already lived so many lives.

There’s a lot going on right now.

Laughter brings us back.

It is that which claims not to be.

Losing your memory is like dying, or like waking up.

What if my whole life was one day, and I got high that day.

You have to have a feeling that your extraordinary melody is out.

Sometimes being human is more important than knowing.

Only some of the truths have anything to do with keeping me healthy as a human. Truths that don’t matter are currency in an anarchy.

I’m always after bigger, and not just the bigger according to our modern fashions, but a classic bigger.

I’ve got a body full of energy and a day to be created.

I hope it really starts to blow when I am watching, just laying there to pay attention to the rain.

Everything is quite loud and bright to me now, even though everyone else seems to think it is just as usual.

Infinite in the sense that it has happened, and therefore always will have, and may even have always been certain to.

Often then it was as it should now be.

Oh God where comes it from?

I have these rain boots that I wear to tramp through rain.

The wind came in to kiss me this morning.

The ice cubes are made out of ice.

What if we’re all slaves to an angel trade?

I forget about you by remembering everyone else.

A social love: not because he’s great, but because other people think he’s great.

I wake up early not to begin my day but to watch the morning.

I am thankful that so many other humans speak my language.

Black and white parts of a grey whole.

How little you know about how much you and anybody else knows anyhow.

Sex is of structure, love is of chaos.

The art has to be packaged within the world, the chaos within the order, you must follow the rules to break them.

I see two young men ride by on their bikes—they are the same, or at least appear so: combed over hair, sunglasses, and sweaters.

A pine branch waves with its needle fingers.

I find all of history in one moment; all of knowledge in one idea; all of space in one atom.

My hands are creepy crawly things, and big blobs when folded together.

Once you have seen the trick, it is only by great effort that you fool yourself again.

I delight in the sublime, really truly seeing the world for the first time.

A sane mind looks up and outside of itself.

I wake up to get to know a day.

As time goes on, I notice fewer particulars, and melt slowly into a general feeling.

To write, I go to the symphony, watch a beggar beg, close my eyes and listen to my breath, watching myself.

Unripe bananas taste like youth.

Begin time to turn me. Turn and say, “Yes.”

That it may lie along someday, beating back its own way, into the stepwise.

In the cut, on the fringe, where all creation is born, but where I myself die.

Waking up one summer to smells that were not real before.

There mightn’t be right answers.

Life is a long day, and death is a longer night. Like I am happy to sleep when I have been awake too long, might I in old age be happy to die?

When I return to the light behind my eyelids.