“I basked in you;I loved you, helplessly, with a boundless tongue-tied love.And death doesn't prevent me from loving you.Besides, in my opinion you aren't dead.(I know dead people, and you are not dead.)”

“And let me ask you this: the dead, where aren't they?”

“What I would say is this: writing poems doesn't make you a poet. … It is only with poetry, for some reason, that everyone wants to believe they can try their hand at it once in a while and be considered, can call themselves a poet. … . It's a craft. It's an art. It's a skill. It is not therapy, and it is not compensation for terrible things in one's life. It is a thing in itself. You devote yourself to being an instrument of it, or you wander forever in the belief that it is a form of "self-expression." … And I explained very clearly my opinion of what I think a poet, an artist is. Someone who puts this thing first. ”

“EPITAPHNow I'm not the brightestknife in the drawer, butI know a couple thingsabout this life: povertysilence, impermanencediscipline and mysteryThe world is not illusory, we areFrom crimson thread to toe tagIf you are not disturbedthere is something seriously wrong with you, I'm sorryAnd I know who I amI'll be a voicecoming from nowhere,inside--be glad for me.”

“If only I could tell someone.The humiliation I go throughwhen I think of my pastcan only be described as grace.We are created by being destroyed.”

“The long silences need to be loved, perhaps more than the words which arrive to describe them in time.”

“All the tears in the world can't bring back the dead or wash away your fears and grief. I want you to put up your chin and tell yourself you are strong. And if you begin to weaken, hold on to me. That's what I am here for.”