In this summer heat, I must remember that the realest things are the closest and farthest away, like the warmth found in winter: the heat hidden in the folds of one’s coat, a lost floating breath, a kiss across the distance of zero degrees.

If I could simply place the various parts of myself into the night sky to occasionally glance up and behold myself – maybe in the end I am only hoping to vicariously soak up some starlight.

Every once in a while, and it happens only several times a year if I am lucky, I will feel astonishment that I exist, that I am sitting, standing, perceiving, and that others perceive me... It is probably a good thing I am not always so aware of my existence because otherwise I would walk about in a haze of wonder embracing things.

Art allows us to die over and over without actually dying. Only we must catch our breath.

I let quiet shape what I say, then realize there is nothing that can be fully said – the reason for gestures and eyes and art. Always something waiting, wanting, expectant, yet also curiously not.

We are each of us a bird in a body. In the space between bodies lies a solitude formed by the vibration of differing thoughts.

Being in the country is like being in a dream – one doesn’t quite know who one is. There is an anonymity to it all – that strange human creature that is me, one among all.

I try to live in the luminosity of things.

A slippage, what has not come to pass or what has passed, a bit of nothingness or a bit of everything if one considers all a slip of paper might hold.

The window counter considered numbers often. How many tons of air did the universe contain, for instance. She wanted to know the average number of thoughts projected on an object in its life, to measure the silences in a dream, to calculate the ideal amount of light a window should emit. But the most pressing question of all was the number of windows the world contained. How many worlds could a person view from within or without?