Art Has Two Constant, Two Unending Concerns:

I Have Been Writing In Spurts, Bit By Bit. It Is Incredibly Difficult. Everything Is Corroded, Broken, Dismantled; Everything Is Covered With Hardened Layers Of Accumulated Insensitivity, Deafness, Entrenched Routine. It Is Disgusting.

It Is No Longer Possible For Lyric Poetry To Express The Immensity Of Our Experience. Life Has Grown Too Cumbersome, Too Complicated. We Have Acquired Values Which Are Best Expressed In Prose.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

Art Always Serves Beauty, And Beauty Is The Joy Of Possessing Form, And Form Is The Key To Organic Life Since No Living Thing Can Exist Without It.

And Remember: You Must Never, Under Any Circumstances, Despair. To Hope And To Act, These Are Our Duties In Misfortune.