“There is magic in this moist world, in how the mind lets go, slips into sleepy water, circles and nuzzles the banks of palmetto and wild iris, how it seeps across dreams, smears them into the upright world, rots the wood of treasure chests, welcomes the body home.”

Caves so often symbolize rebirth. It’s a hidden space, an expected, inscrutable space. Strange things live in there – eyeless salamanders, albino fish, a prophet’s epiphanies.

In a swamp, as in meditation, you begin to glimpse how elusive, how inherently insubstantial, how fleeting our thoughts are, our identities.

Things in the margins, including humans who wander there, are often on the brink of becoming someone else, or something else, whose memory may not include the significance of old markers.

Swamps and bogs are places of transition and wild growth, breeding grounds, experimental labs where organisms and ideas have the luxury of being out of the spotlight, where the imagination can mutate and mate, send tendrils into and out of the water.

going into a cave might be like going inside one’s own mind, crawling around in the pitch-black, nook-and-crannied labyrinth of the human psyche.

To love a swamp, however, is to love what is muted and marginal, what exists in the shadows, what shoulders its way out of mud and scurries along the damp edges of what is most commonly praised. And sometimes its invisibility is a blessing.

Silence arrests flight, so that in its refuge, the need to flee the chaos of noise diminishes. We let the world creep closer, we drop to our knees, as if to let the heart, like a small animal, get its legs on the ground.

The election is not very far off when a candidate can recognize you across the street.

Hang on, did you just call me angel? I asked. If i did? I dont like it. He grinned. It stays. Angel. He leaned across the table, raised his hand to my face, and brushed his thumb along one corner of my mouth. I pulled away, too late.

There’s something very dangerous happening in states across the country.

I have seen too many chaotic settings, where children are running around. There’s no sense of purpose.

The idea of having different characters is really just to get the storyline across, you know? Coming from one particular character makes, to me, the story boring.

People don’t need to necessarily see me in the jersey to understand who I am and what message I’m trying to get across with the things that I’m marketing.

The only people benefiting from the status quo in immigration [in the USA] today are the people trafficking human beings across the border, and the people who are hiring illegal labor for cheap purposes.

From the coffee bars of Camden to the gin joints of Norfolk – across Britain, a revolution is brewing. And no, it’s not John McDonnell’s bitter socialist hooch. It’s a generation growing up with an entirely different view of the world – free thinking, optimistic and hungry for success.