Everything I do, I do because I know I am dying. My most favorites of things are optical illusions. We don’t become senile or “lose our minds,” it’s just that as we get older, we have more to think of in less time-we must think of more in a compressed amount of time. I think I know now what you’ve tried to teach me, that poetry is an instant, an instant in which transcendence is achieved, where a miracle occurs and all of one’s knowledge, experience, memories etc. are obliterated into awe. Is anything I say real? And by real, I mean sincere–or is everything an attempt to have love? I know now why the line breaks: it is because something dies, and elsewhere, is born again
via Jenny Boully / The Body (emphasis mine)
Editions Of You 