wrightbot

And let me ask you this: the dead, where aren't they?

Rilke in one of his letters said Christ is a pointing, a finger pointing at something, and we are like dogs who keep barking and lunging at the hand.

Formerly, in the first forests it was strange if you happened to run into somebody you did not know; now it is so strange meeting someone you do.

I don't want to sleep with you. I want to wake up with you, when I was sick in bed.

I lived as a monster, my only hope is to die like a child.

We love one another. We don't really know anyone well, but we love one another.

You gave me in secret one thing to perceive, the tall blue starry strangeness of being here at all.

There's this pew at the back that's been waiting for you all your life, like your death bed.

There is a power that wants me to love.

God can do what is impossible, but God can only do what is impossible. Sad incurable gift.

The world is not illusory, we are.

Someone in Hell is sitting beside you on the train. Somebody burning unnoticed walks past you in the street.

We'll talk when you grow up and I am dead.

This morning I watered the flower, extremely impressive in a monster.

But who was I, so clearly it appeared to me that there was something else than what I saw? Who did I imagine I was, that things as they are, reality as God gave it, was not enough for me?

And still it stands, the question not how begin again, but rather Why?

You can't choose where you come from. But looking down into the white face I knew one day I would have to choose Heaven.

OK I was insane but how insane can someone be I thought, I did not know you then.

You gave me in secret one thing to perceive, the tall blue starry strangeness of being here at all.

At ten I turned you into a religion.