He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out

The World's Decay Where The Wind's Hands Have Passed, And My Head, Worn Out With Love, At Rest In My Hands, And My Hands Full Of Dust.

What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying To Take Fuller Possession Of The Reality Of Your Life.

There Is No Better Way To Know Us Than As Two Wolves, Come Separately To A Wood.

And That's How We Measure Out Our Real Respect For People—by The Degree Of Feeling They Can Register, The Voltage Of Life They Can Carry And Tolerate—and Enjoy. End Of Sermon. As Buddha Says: Live Like A Mighty River. And As The Old Greeks Said: Live As Though All Your Ancestors Were Living Again Through You.

The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear With Sand And With Fear. You May Wash Out The Sand, But Never The Sound Of The Ghost Of The Sea That Is Haunting Me.