A small joke at eternity’s expense.
The act of making things is a dangerous discovery.
I can give you oranges or secrets.
My particular creature is not a comfortable beast to live with. But we know each other well.
If you give me your words I’ll make them a galaxy.
The rustling on either side could be anything.
Insurance is not a poetic thing, but it gives life or death, as surely as the Universe: a great deal smaller, though not less complex.
I don’t know the name, but I know it lies closest to your heart.
I’ll tell you a secret about happy endings.
I miss the summertime of liquid sun