"Speak what rests at the tip of your tongue, all you’ve never said and not done, the eyes of the ever-questioning, are blind to the forever-known, for to have faith in one person, takes more courage than vision can see, so forgive yourself for all you aren’t to know, to the infinity of open sky your vulnerability, show and live the mysteries of great things, I dare you."
But I don’t want comfort. I want poetry. I want danger. I want freedom. I want goodness. I want sin.
I like the dark part of the night, after midnight and before four-thirty, when it’s hollow, when ceilings are harder and farther away. Then I can breathe, and can think while others are sleeping, in a way can stop time, can have it so – this has always been my dream – so that while everyone else is frozen, I can work busily about them, doing whatever it is that needs to be done, like the elves who make the shoes while children sleep.