Are we all living like this? Two lives, the ideal outer life and the inner imaginative life where we keep our secrets?

Language always betrays us, tells the truth when we want to lie, and dissolves into formlessness when we would most like to be precise.

Islands are metaphors of the heart, no matter what poet says otherwise.

Walls protect and walls limit. It is in the nature of walls that they should fall. That walls should fall is the consequence of blowing your own trumpet.

Wallowing is sex for depressives.

I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you. For me, imagination and desire are very close.