An email reply, I just received from a friend, inspired this post:
“My last minute most of the day is emptying bedpans, cooking, and hundreds of other vital chores all day…
In each, I feel blessed…
Things are going splendidly.
Dont forget to read Gustav Flaubert, to be really awake.
He is what I love.
He is Real.”
Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.
Anything becomes interesting if you look at it long enough.
Success is a consequence and must not be a goal.
Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry.
It seems to me that I have always existed and that I possess memories that date back to the Pharaohs.