Go So Deep Into Yourself, You Speak

The Rest Of My Days I Spend Wandering: Wondering What, Anyway, Was That Sticky Infusion, That Rank Flavor Of Blood, That Poetry, By Which I Lived?

It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness, To Put A Hand On Its Brow Of The Flower And Retell It In Words And In Touch It Is Lovely Until It Flowers Again From Within, Of Self-blessing.

I Have Always Intended To Live Forever; But Not Until Now, To Live Now.

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower

Is There A Mechanism Of Death, That So Mutilates Existence No One, Gets Over It Not Even The Dead?