“I’m up to my ears in unwritten words.”

Where do the ducks go in the winter?

I was sixteen then, and I’m seventeen now, and sometimes I act like I’m about thirteen. Sometimes, I act a lot older than I am–I really do. But people never notice it. People never notice anything.

You think of the book you’d most like to be reading, and then you sit down and shamelessly write it.

I’m just sick of ego, ego, ego. My own and everybody else’s. I’m sick of everybody that wants to get somewhere, do something distinguished and all, be somebody interesting. It’s disgusting.

I’m sick of just liking people. I wish to God I could meet somebody I could respect.

I’m sick of not having the courage to be an absolute nobody.

You don’t know how to talk to people you don’t like. Don’t love, really. You can’t live in the world with such strong likes and dislikes.

You can’t stop a teacher when they want to do something. They just do it.

I could happily lie down and die sometimes.

Do you know what I was smiling at? You wrote down that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It’s never been anything but your religion.

And I have one of those very loud, stupid laughs. I mean if I ever sat behind myself in a movie or something, I’d probably lean over and tell myself to please shut up.

All morons hate it when you call them a moron.

People are always ruining things for you.

People are mostly hot to have a discussion when you’re not.

The true poet has no choice of material. The material plainly chooses him, not he it.

There are nice things in the world – and I mean nice things. We’re all such morons to get so sidetracked.

All these words are just a front. What I would really like to do is chain you to my body, then sing for days & days & days.

Words aren’t enough but they are all I have to hold on to right now to keep from falling and near hitting bottom.

God answers the mess of life with one word: Grace.

Poetry reveals that there is no empty space.

This was the Athenians’ war against the King of Macedon, a war of words. Words are the only weapons the Athenians have left.

Nothing is more beautiful in the eyes of God than a soul that loves to hear His Word.

Only a Perfect One who is always laughing at the word two can make you know of Love.

Words have taken hostage of my tongue. All the things I’m too afraid to say collect like volcanic ash in my lungs. Vulnerabilities bleed on paper but leave my mouth – never.