If of the thousands of poems I've written only one makes you hurt or smile or shudder or shiver, it will be worth all that damn ink and paper and breath.

But I don't write them anymore, and they are hidden in books in boxes in a house in the woods.

I think about you every day.

Woke up late last night to see the lunar eclipse ( Read more... )

A few days ago I found a supremely depressing note I had written while drinking ( Read more... )

If there is anything of which I am certain, it is that nothing lasts forever, and that nothing ever truly ends.

I promise, somewhere inside this petulant, sullen, and petty child there is a smiling sober principled man with the individual initiative to sculpt his life into something beautiful and strong. He is in there somewhere, and he is shedding juvenile dreams for even more fantastic goals. He is painting arrows on the tops of his feet, pointing forward ( Read more... )

T. E. Lawrence, Seven Pillars of Wisdom ( Read more... )

There was no beginning. See, reality is not like a story, with a beginning, a middle, and an end, so I can't start the history with something like "In the beginning". If I did, I'd start it with something like, in the beginning, there was everything. Most of the stories you hear have some presupposition similiar to that anyway: what created the ( Read more... )

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I never get on the computer anymore. Being on it now for more than an hour is tiring, almost dizzying. So this feels weird again ( Read more... )