Lost things. They claw through the membranes$$$ attempting to summon our attention through an indecipherable mayday. Words tumble in helpless disorder. The dead speak. We have forgotten how to listen.

She wore her sexuality with an older woman's ease$$$ and not like an awkward purse$$$ never knowing how to hold it$$$ where to hang it$$$ or when to just put it down.

A good book is an education of the heart. It enlarges your sense of human possibility$$$ what human nature is$$$ of what happens in the world. It's a creator of inwardness.

Just come back$$$ I was thinking. You've been gone long enough. Just come back. I will stop traveling; I will wash your clothes.

When a writer tries to explain too much$$$ he's out of time before he begins.

Confound the subtlety of lawyers with the subtlety of the law.

People should riot for their freedom but first they have to understand who they are and how they are ruled.

I love all waste<br>and solitary places; where we taste<br>the pleasure of believing what we see.<br>Is boundless$$$ as we wish our souls to be.

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts$$$ and sped<br>Through many a listening chamber$$$ cave and ruin$$$<br>And starlight wood$$$ with fearful steps pursuing<br>Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.

What objects are the fountains<br>Of thy happy strain?<br>What fields$$$ or waves$$$ or mountains?<br>What shapes of sky or plain?<br>What love of thine own kind?<br>What ignorance of pain?