He is at home with his solitude as the note reverberating inside a bell.

Grief is an element. It has its own cycle like the carbon cycle, the nitrogen. It never diminishes not ever. It passes in and out of everything.

I want to be two people at once. One runs away.

I think now that maybe true sweetness can only happen in limbo.

That is what we are, what we do: nose a net, push push, a net that never exists. The knots in the mesh as strong as our own believing. Our own fears.

To multiply the years and divide by the desire to live is a kind of false accounting.

If there is nothing else there is this: to be inundated, consumed.

She collapsed. I stepped forward and caught her. I thought of two trees nearly unrooted and leaning against each other.

So I wonder what it is this need to tell.To animate somehow the deathly stillness of the profoundest beauty. Breathe life in the telling.

Discover your calling and let go of the past

I buy, collect and read books.

Fear is a pair of handcuffs on your soul.

I've always been sort of interested in the rural countryside. Things happen out there that are very strange to city dwellers.

I set little goals and as I hit those little goals I know they're moving me forward.

How does a person create a song? A lot of it is being open to encounter and to be in touch with the miraculous.

A perfect conversation would run much less to brilliant sentences than to unfinished ones.

The invention of the ship was also the invention of the shipwreck.

I suppose every time [something bad happens], I have that instinct to make that joke that distracts.

Is it conceivable that mysticism is a mark of inadequate art?