Holy Dying”, extract from chapter IV.I (The Practice of Patience) para 5.
A caprice is handled like a stew, and the pepper is added at the last minute.
To be a poet is a love affair, not a desire to dare.
The only love affair I have ever had was with music.
I wrapped my arms around him like I was saving an oak tree.
It was as if we’d known each other for a thousand years.