An angel told me its name and said that I couldn't tell it to anyone else. But I skipped around speaking the name to the leaves, and they began to rustle softly, rustling this wisdom to me:

Do flowers grow to bloom, or bloom to wilt?

Does one count the hours by the tick of a clock, or by the jaunt of someone winding one up?

Does the sun chase the moon or the moon chase the sun? Yet one does love the other, the other thinks it’s fun.

Do you not know that everything is in its place? If what is there should be here, then it’d be there.

What is existence to you anyway? You sleep through it, yawn to it, stroll past it—like an silly swine you roll in it.

Those who will do anything to preserve mystery are like foolish gamblers, they’ll spend their whole fortune to win impoverishment.

What? I should have both faith and reason? But what’s the reason for that?

What? Language doesn’t refer to anything? Then why are you speaking to me?

What? There’s a reality for each person? Well which one are we in?

Newsflash: the Great Vowel Shift happened in my salt shaker.

Newsflash: a stool softener is neighbors with a shooting star.

Day is the question, night is the answer, and thus it is written: "let the heavens answer their own mysteries."

You can have the fiery hi and freezing low of life! It only leaves one sunburnt and shivering . . .

miscarriage is always the outcome of trying to give birth to oneself

if only you could inhale life for as long I've exhaled it!

I am here for you: not that I can give you anything, but merely that I want to.

the blazing sunset, a panoramic range of an insane asylum.

she swims in creeks of pineapple, strawberry, and kiwi residue.

If you fear the sting of lightning, it might not split open a pomegranate for you.

The grains of a sunset pours their dryness, their ecstasy into me.

Shakespeare crawled into my marble before it replaced Mars.