I do understand what it is to have a beacon to follow in dark times—a person you trust to guide you true. How it is to desperately wish their light would fall upon you again.

YOU: Are *you* part of the homo-sexual underground? KIM: You didn't stop at all, did you? You're just obsessing about *other people's* sexuality now. YOU: Yeah, but...... KIM: but am I? I'll spare you another *20 hour mind-project.* Yes, I am. Now let's get back to work.

I don't know what it is you saw in there, but.. I'll be back. I promise you I won't disappear. Do you hear me?

Well then, <see you again> next time. Please send a limo to get me. 'Cause everyone else will be there too.

I can see the truth in your eyes as you're telling me lies, like you know that you'll hold my hand again.

Nothing. It hurts inside. It's because I remembered something I don't have anymore.

Surely your life has not been so idyllic? People like you and I are not the product of happy lives of contentment, after all.

Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee.

I am human and I need to be loved / Just like everybody else does

The ones I love and long to see again are waiting. In that promised land, beyond memory and dream...

I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.

Look to the sky, look to yourself and remember: we are only God’s echoes and God is Narcissus.

Even the dark needs things to eat. To love. Is there a difference? We consume what we love, its purpose and sustenance. We feast on its glory and sedate ourselves with its beauty.

Our capacity for love increases with each person we cross paths with throughout our lives and with each moment we spend with those people.

“We’re staying together,” he promised. “You’re not getting away from me. Never again.” “As long as we’re together,” she said.

Look. There's only one of me, and it's all I've got. I hate seeing myself dissolve and slip and separate so that I'm living in one half, my mind, and I see the other half of me helpless and frantic and driven and I can't stop it,

Was not writing poetry a secret transaction, a voice answering a voice?

I do understand what it is to have a beacon to follow in dark times—a person you trust to guide you true. How it is to desperately wish their light would fall upon you again.

🫶