Then it comes to me: Yes I’ll die, so will everyone, so has everyone. It’s what we have in common. And for a moment, the sorrow ceased, and I saw that it hadn’t been sorrow after all, but loneliness,

“I sleep more and more and in my dreams God says, You’re done for and It only gets worse.”

“I wanted to believe; indeed I longed to; and, in the end, how much of belief comes from longing?”

“And, I understand, / the stars in the sky are already dead.”

“There is so little to remember of anyone - an anecdote, a conversation at a table. But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming habitual fondness not having meant to keep us waiting long.”

“I only love what finds me invisible and touches me deeply.”

“Another kind of hurt lodged / where happiness had smouldered, another kind / of ruin, and summer came.”

“I’m full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry.”

“All I have to offer you is everything in me.”