Any Memory For The Most Part Depending

Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A Fantasy: A Kind Of Circling Obsession.

Here Silence Stands Like Heat. Here Leaves Unnoticed Thicken, Hidden Weeds Flower, Neglected Waters Quicken, Luminously-peopled Air Ascends; And Past The Poppies Bluish Neutral Distance Ends The Land Suddenly Beyond A Beach Of Shapes And Shingle. Here Is Unfenced Existence: Facing The Sun, Untalkative, Out Of Reach.

Beneath It All, Desire Of Oblivion Runs: Despite The Artful Tensions Of The Calendar, The Life Insurance, The Tabled Fertility Rites, The Costly Aversion Of The Eyes From Death- Beneath It All, Desire Of Oblivion Runs.

Get Stewed:books Are A Load Of Crap.

To Put One Brick Upon Another, Add A Third, And Then A Fourth, Leaves No Time To Wonder Whether What You Do Has Any Worth.