“Good morning. The sun is 93 million miles away her light takes 8 minutes to find you each day. You are on purpose.”

The argentinian kisses me on a beach in tulum.

May my children never read this.

You’re rolling me in coffee hands I’m u-turn smoked rubber coming back- oh I’m spent, ask on the still.

When I reached for what I wanted, they said I left my needs behind. But if all birds need is on the ground why then do they fly?

Oh the salt water I had to sweat to realize there was an ocean inside of me.

I found my old diary tonight. A brokenness I had forgotten pen pressured so deep it punctured page. I ran my fingers over my words and there inside ridges black I found a little girl desperate for someone to save her, desperate for the very woman I have become.

This morning I tell the kindest man on earth after two dates, you are good and you are not my man. My man is not as good as you.

I know this won’t always be a good deal for me I make it anyway.

Don’t get too used to being alone.

I want to be in an Jane Austen novel with you.

God is a woman and like every woman has millions of years of men speaking for her.

I keep saying over and over. I’m sorry but I have to go now you are not my person.

I play with the nativity and tell mary she looks good in that color blue.

The day my children move out is years I can count on two hands I have them half this time years I count on one.

I took the bobblehead of him off his refrigerator and kissed it.

Go fuck yourself.

Whenever the work is itself light, it becomes necessary, in order to economize time, to increase the velocity.

He that hath light within their own breast, may sit in the centre and enjoy bright day.

I gotta stay in that light where people will see me and hear me. And not be scared of me, you know?

There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery.

Your dark times will show you who can never be your light.

The golden hours on angel wings Flew o’er me and my dearie, For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Mozart didn’t need a scheme for his music. He played and sang with the heavenly lightness of a child.

Hint at the existence of wickedness in a light, easy, and agreeable manner, so that nobody’s fine feelings may be offended.