“You know what I do? I listen to other people, stumbling about with their half thoughts and half sentences and their clumsy feelings that they can't express, and it hurts me. So I go home and burnish it and polish it and weld it to a rhythmic frame, make the dull colors gleam, mute the garish artificiality to pastels, so it doesn't hurt any more: that's my poem. I know what they want to say, and I say it for them.”

“The parts of me that hurt the worst want me to write something for them, but I can't. I don't know what to say. I'm lost in all this sadness, and so are they.”

“Half of what I say is meaningless; but I say it so that the other half may reach you.”

“I never know what to tell them. I mean, there's nothing you can say to make a person stop hurting. Half the time, I just feel like telling them the truth. I'd say that for 3 months, you're going to feel worse than you've ever felt and you cope as best you can. And that after 6 months, the pain isn't so bad, but it still hurts more than you think it will. And even after years, you still find yourself thinking about the person you lost and get sad about it. And you still miss them all the time.”

“So what, ghosts can't hurt you. That's what I thought then.”

“...What I want is to be like I him. I want the gall, the gumption--for that is what it takes--to ask people I do not know if I may come into their lives, without fearing that they might say no, or fearing that once they let me in, they might hurt me. I want to know, truly know, others, reach out to people who would otherwise just come and go, passing through my life as strangers.”