"Every one asks me what I 'think' of everything," said Spencer Brydon; "and I make answer as I can—begging or dodging the question, putting them off with any nonsense. It wouldn't matter to any of them really," he went on, "for, even were it possible to meet in that stand-and-deliver way so silly a demand on so big a subject, my 'thoughts' would still be almost altogether about something that concerns only myself."
I wanted someone to hit me the night my mother vomited on the bedroom floor
Can you meet the gaze of a child, can you wander over it into purest seeing, can you meet the gaze of a child and would you then see lakes of eternity in her eyes, his eyes, can you, will you, would you meet the gaze of a child and go down Moses and Mary and all the saints...
True utter north, compass of my heart and needle pointing northward, the north of my dreams and the north of my waking
I remember you coming home from work, it was tea time. You were exhausted but I had waited urged the clock to hurry all day at school