“Because sooner or later, all kinds of love – crazy love, wild love- fade into the same thing. The love becomes old and predictable -safe.”

Here’s the story of my life. Hoping they would care about me or wishing they wouldn’t care so much.

I don’t know if what we had was love, but if it wasn’t, I hope never to fall in love. Because of you, I know I am too fragile to bear it.

I look for you, the way I was taught to look both ways when crossing the road. Uptight and wary, bracing myself for something I know could break me.

It is the mark of a great poet to write words that feel as though they have stood witness to your most intimate memory of love.

I had no way of knowing, when I was sitting alone in that tiny bedroom, that in just a few short months, I would meet the love of my life: a man who lived across the ocean from me, in a little house by the sea.

My father was a house,my mother was a home.

Doesn’t your soul remain the age you were when you first fell in love?

Some Time Out The time may not be prime for us, though you are a special person. We may be just two different clocks, that do not tock, in unison.

Sometimes I am caught between poetry and prose, like two lovers I can’t decide between. Prose says to me, let’s build something long and lasting. Poetry takes me by the hand, and whispers, come with me, let’s get lost for awhile.

Every day I measure the weight of my past against the present and feel the drag of what could have been.

It is only the year that is ending. So why does it feel like the world is?

He and I When words run dry, he does not try, nor do I. We are on par. He just is, I just am, and we just are.

In many ways, a book is, in itself, a tiny universe. Each page is like a newly formed galaxy, fashioned from a single, pulsing thought. A book travels for days, for years, sometimes for centuries to meet you at an exact point in time.

Now I know being close to you was never about the proximity.

But how could I have stopped him from taking what was already his?

If you love me for what you see, only your eyes would be in love with me.

If I am going to trash others for their dumb predictions, I must at least hold myself to the same sort of accountability.

The considerations upon which expectations of prospective yields are based are partly existing facts which we can assume to be known more or less for certain, and partly future events which can only be forecasted with more or less confidence.

Investing is an activity of forecasting the yield over the life of the asset; speculation is the activity of forecasting the psychology of the market.

I won’t predict anything historic. But nothing is impossible.

Never make predictions, especially about the future.

And the weather was so damn sick of being predictable; I heard it began snowing in the Sahara and I wanted to tell you that I’ve changed.

Having established that good ideas do indeed come in from the cold, start on the fringes and become mainstream, can we make any predictions about what the next move will be?

Their predictions become postdictions- Their equations become justifications, their logic, illogic.