This is what Julianne Buchsbaum said that applies to me:

The subject wastes itself night after night over the sheer metallic surface of its sense of self.

This would be a good start to a story:

"The night, ready to stain and spot her guilty sables with loyal blood, was attiring herself for tragedy."

This is out a window of an apartment in Bourbonnais:

This is about what the dead men said:

At West Jefferson and Gallows Street, ring for me.
I will be inside, talking with the dead men.
“That’s the way we like it now,” they say,
but in my ears there is only the ringing, and a hint of significance.

The dead men are not interested in all that.
“Do you think,” they say, “that the new—will be the final rupture?”
You can’t hear what they say because the fumes from their pipes are too thick.
Their voices get lost, like servants in smoke in a burning manse.

(It was like the place we saw once with all the trees.
You cried and cried because you said the trees were all dead men.
You said that someone had stood them up along the driveway to shake their woody bones at you as you passed.)
The fog there was like their pipes, was what I was trying to say.

“It’s really more of a question of paradigms,” the dead men tell you.
You can see their paradigms hunched on the chairs behind them, sweaty teeth in the tops of the dead men’s heads.

“I’m quite pleased to be here,” will be the first of tonight’s lies.

This is what Richard Feynman said:

First we have an observation, then we have numbers that we measure, then we have a law which summarizes all the numbers. But the real glory of science is that we can find a way of thinking such that the law is evident.

This is something significant:

This is what was written in the green notebook:

Midgard lies on all the roads,
On every dragon-backed hill girded with cement.
Nothing is said of the hesitation all men feel to step on a road,
not knowing by what destination they will be consumed.

This is what St. Augustine says (somewhere in the Confessions):

Let me not be my own life: badly have I lived from myself: I was death to myself: in you I live again. Speak to me, speak with me.

This was somewhere in Indiana:

[too many dead Autobots]

This was also written in the large blue notebook:

Though accounts vary, satellites did not in fact fall that night, but I wandered low above the sky. There beyond the fires it was cold, and I saw that the gods drew themselves about the hearth of dirt and warmth that was the Earth, huddling against the deep night and listening to the stories men told below.

This is a famous picture by Hokusai:

This is what was written in the large blue notebook:

If there is a needle there is one who threads, and all those rich men fell like coal through a hole in the pavement, screaming for answers. If there is a needle there is one who threads, and I saw him slip a scarlet strand from a prostitute’s window. If there is a needle then there is steel from which it flowed, and there is fire under a mountain, and there is the voice of the damned. If there is a needle there is one who sews. The rags he pierces will cry out and run again and again, all the scarecrow men down dusty streets like wrappers in a breeze, but they will be shaped into gowns and draped across the camel’s back.

This is what G. K. Chesterton says (somewhere in Orthodoxy):

Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion . . . To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything is a strain. The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in . . .

There is such a thing as a narrow universality; there is such a thing as a small and cramped eternity . . . How much larger your life would be if your self could become smaller in it; if you could really look at other men with common curiousity and pleasure . . . You would break out of this tiny and tawdy theatre in which your own little plot is always being played, and you would find yourself under a freer sky, in a street full of splendid strangers.

This is a picture of Ireland taped to a notebook.