“You are giving me words to write a song and that's even better than butterflies.”

“noone knows and noone seeswe lovers doing what we pleasebut people stop and point at theseten milk bottles a-turning into cheese”

“You are giving me words to write a song and that's even better than butterflies.”

“They don't know who I am; what they do know, is that I'm not nothing, and that I'm not noone.”

“WHEN THE ALMIGHTY HAS PREDESTINED YOU, THERE IS NOONE IN THIS PHYSICAL LIFE THAT CAN BLOCK YOUR BLESSINGS.....”

“AimlesslyIt pounds the shore. White and aimless signals. NoOne listens to poetry.— from "Thing Language”

“Playing roles in any relationship is false and will inevitably lead to the relationship's collapse. Noone can be any one thing all the time.”

“Dont force noone to see your worth, it doesnt matter how much you love them, love yourself first, eventually they will know what they lost.”

“I feel like I'm dropping such a long way down again." "I seem to be dropping into a cold dark wet place, where no one's been before and noone can every follow. There's no future there; just a past that sometimes fools you into thinking it's the future. It's the most alone place you can ever be and, when you go there, you not only cease to exist in real life, you also cease to exist in their consciousness and in their memories.”

“Life was not to be sitting in hot amorphic leisure in my backyard idly writing or not-writing, as the spirit moved me. It was, instead, running madly, in a crowded schedule, in a squirrel cage of busy people. Working, living, dancing, dreaming, talking, kissing — singing, laughing, learning. The responsibility, the awful responsibility of managing (profitably) 12 hours a day for 10 weeks is rather overwhelming when there is nothing, noone, to insert an exact routine into the large unfenced acres of time — which it is so easy to let drift by in soporific idling and luxurious relaxing. It is like lifting a bell jar off a securely clockwork-like functioning community, and seeing all the little busy people stop, gasp, blow up and float in the inrush, (or rather outrush,) of the rarified scheduled atmosphere — poor little frightened people, flailing impotent arms in the aimless air. That's what it feels like: getting shed of a routine. Even though one had rebelled terribly against it, even then, one feels uncomfortable when jounced out of the repetitive rut. And so with me. What to do? Where to turn? What ties, what roots? as I hang suspended in the strange thin air of back-home?”