michelle ilana

I need time and solitude. In my head there is a whole army of people asking to be let out and waiting for the word of command.

We do not escape into philosophy, psychology, and art —we go there to restore our shattered selves into whole ones.

She is pure poetry walking and breathing, inside and outside of my books, so I feel I am not lying, I am not inventing, l am not far from the truth. Her eyes become immense when she asks questions. Blue, with the pupil very dark and dilated. She looks mischievous and fragile. Her voice sings, changes: low, gay, sad, heavy, trailing, dreaming.

He was like nature, good, wild, and sometimes cruel. He had all the moods of nature: beauty, timidity, violence, and tenderness. Nature was chaos.

What is poetry? Is it a mosaic of coloured stones which curiously are wrought into a pattern? Rather glass that's taught by patient labor any hue to take and glowing with a sumptuous splendor, make beauty a thing of awe; where sunbeams caught, transmuted fall in sheafs of rainbows fraught with storied meaning for religion's sake.

We have become restless; we feel tied now to work which keeps us from enchanting wanderings, from seeking and finding beauty throughout the world.

I fall in love with myself, and I want someone to share it with me. I want someone to share me, with me.