On the night of the greatest pain I fell into a trance and woke inside a strange place, and the wind was blowing, the curtains waved back and forth, and it was her, my special her in the other room upon the floor, with something in her mouth, that suddenly fell, but nothing said, but one word, stop.

I know it was never about love, and most people would wonder, but love had nothing to do with it, you would think about love for just a minute, let it rolling into you and smash you down, its so heavy to love somebody, its not the cookies, its not the plums and honey wine you expect.

Lately people might tell Jews to go to Israel and they might say: Thanks, I needed an excuse to do that!

The meaning of life pretends to be Bertha the Cow, but now I know her as milk, butter and cheese.