All Life Long, The Same Questions, The

Personally I Have No Bone To Pick With Graveyards.

I Open The Door Of The Cell And Go. I Am So Bowed I Only See My Feet, If I Open My Eyes, And Between My Legs A Little Trail Of Black Dust. I Say To Myself That The Earth Is Extinguished, Though I Never Saw It Lit.

With All This Darkness Round Me I Feel Less Alone.

Words Are The Clothes Thoughts Wear.

Birth Was The Death Of Him.