If Your Way Of Life Is Writing,

My Religion Makes No Sense And Does Not Help Me Therefore I Pursue It.

Eros Is An Issue Of Boundaries. He Exists Because Certain Boundaries Do. In The Interval Between Reach And Grasp, Between Glance And Counterglance, Between ‘i Love You’ And ‘i Love You Too,’ The Absent Presence Of Desire Comes Alive. But The Boundaries Of Time And Glance And I Love You Are Only Aftershocks Of The Main, Inevitable Boundary That Creates Eros: The Boundary Of Flesh And Self Between You And Me. And It Is Only, Suddenly, At The Moment When I Would Dissolve That Boundary, I Realize I Never Can.

Time Isn't Made Of Anything. It Is An Abstraction. Just A Meaning That We Impose Upon Motion.

To Be Running Breathlessly, But Not Yet Arrived, Is Itself Delightful, A Suspended Moment Of Living Hope.

Poetry - Poiesis Means A Thing Made.