tea and bubbles.

I’ve spent most of my life thinking art would make sense of it

Mathematics, rightly viewed, possesses not only truth, but supreme beauty — a beauty cold and austere, like that of sculpture, without appeal to any part of our weaker nature, without the gorgeous trappings of painting or music, yet sublimely pure, and capable of a stern perfection such as only the greatest art can show. The true spirit of delight, the exaltation, the sense of being more than Man, which is the touchstone of the highest excellence, is to be found in mathematics as surely as poetry.

… in this careless moment, in this careless moment of light.

That the self, sometimes in sleep, admits the loss, the grief, and accepts the burden of loneliness; embracing what we will not admit we long for

We think of the mechanics, the interchangeable selves of ourselves. The valves of the heart. Yes, the body rushing into the long white line of the divided dark.

I should be telling you about fireflies, the containment of light, how we work to bring it closer to us, into our bodies

Come with all your shame, come with your swollen heart, I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than you.

What is human existence? It turns out it’s pretty simple: We are dead stars, looking back up at the sky.

I am obscure to myself. I let myself happen. I unfold only in the now. I am rudely alive.

Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.

It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.

Those years weren’t lost. They simply weren’t the way I’d planned them.

… imagine! imagine! the wild and wondrous journeys still to be ours.