Purple flowers grow, the colour blood looks in the veins. They’ll sprout out of my chest. I promise you they’ll crack the ground, grow over the freeways down the slopes to the sea. I’ll be in their faces. I’ll be in the waves, coming down on you from the sky. I’ll be inside the one who holds you.
And then I won’t be.
Nature is busy creating absolutely unique individuals, whereas culture has invented a single mold to which all must conform. It is grotesque.
You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors.