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Tolerance is easy enough if you exclude from it everyone you despise.
People steal into one’s consciousness and occupy what seems, in retrospect, to have been their place all along.
The ancients said that since we can’t attain happiness, we might as well be happy without it.
I had imagined poets caught their poems from the air. How could rhyme and sense come together so wholly, so like a thing in nature? So that it seemed the poem could only have already been there, a thing to be found?