“I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.”

“Tell me what’s the differencebetween hope and waitingbecause my heart doesn’t knowIt constantly cuts itself on the glass of waitingIt constantly gets lost in the fog of hope”

“The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.”

“No home anymore. Nowhere to return. My house is a ruin, a cemetery. You may yearn for the grave, but just try living there.”

“I returnedto confirmthere can be no return.”

“Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.”

“Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.”