The partaker partakes of that which changes him. The child that touches takes character from the thing, The body, it touches. The captain and his men Are one and the sailor and the sea are one.

In solitude the trumpets of solitude Are not of another solitude resounding; A little string speaks for a crowd of voices.

On a blue island in a sky-wide water The wild orange trees continued to bloom and to bear, Long after the planter's death.

Music falls on the silence like a sense, A passion that we feel, not understand.

I was straight until I heard Denis Leary's voice for the first time.

demons and fishhooks he exclaimed i am losing my personal identity as a worm my individuality is melting away from me odds craw i am becoming part and parcel o…

But will you find me if Neil makes me a tree?