But The Problem Is To Make The

What A Life! True Life Is Elsewhere. We Are Not In The World.

Faith Assuages, Guides, Restores.

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

...i Is Another. If The Brass Wakes The Trumpet, It’s Not Its Fault. That’s Obvious To Me: I Witness The Unfolding Of My Own Thought: I Watch It, I Hear It: I Make A Stroke With The Bow: The Symphony Begins In The Depths, Or Springs With A Bound Onto The Stage. If The Old Imbeciles Hadn’t Discovered Only The False Significance Of Self, We Wouldn’t Have To Now Sweep Away Those Millions Of Skeletons Which Have Been Piling Up The Products Of Their One-eyed Intellect Since Time Immemorial, And Claiming Themselves To Be Their Authors!

And I Am Still Alive-what Though, My Damnation Is Eternal. A Man Who Deliberately Mutilates Himself Is Truly Damned, Is He Not? I Believe That I Am In Hell, Therefore I Am.