In A Mad World It Always Seems

Nobody Here Could Ever Talk About A Heaven On Earth. Heaven Remained Rigidly In Its Proper Place On The Other Side Of Death, And On This Side Flourished The Injustices, The Cruelties, The Meanness That Elsewhere People So Cleverly Hushed Up. Here You Could Love Human Beings Nearly As God Loved Them, Knowing The Worst: You Didn't Love A Pose, A Pretty Dress, A Sentiment Artfully Assumed.

They Think My Mother's Ashes Are Marijuana.

Happiness Is Never Really So Welcome As Changelessness.

My Two Fingers On A Typewriter Have Never Connected With My Brain. My Hand On A Pen Does. A Fountain Pen, Of Course. Ball-point Pens Are Only Good For Filling Out Forms On A Plane.

I Thought I Am Kissing Pain And Pain Belongs To You As Happiness Never Does. I Love You In Your Pain. I Could Almost Taste Metal And Salt In The Skin, And I Thought, How Good You Are. You Might Have Killed Us With Happiness, But You Let Us Be With You In Pain.