In The Room The Women Come And

The Progress Of An Artist Is A Continual Self-sacrifice, A Continual Extinction Of Personality.

The Naming Of Cats Is A Difficult Matter

I Grow Old … I Grow Old … I Shall Wear The Bottoms Of My Trousers Rolled.

…forgive Us, O Lord, We Acknowledge Ourselves As Type Of The Common Man, Of The Men And Women Who Shut The Door And Sit By The Fire; Who Fear The Blessing Of God, The Loneliness Of The Night Of God, The Surrender Required, The Deprivation Inflicted; Who Fear The Injustice Of Men Less Than The Justice Of God; Who Fear The Hand At The Window, The Fire In The Thatch, The Fist In The Tavern, The Push Into The Canal, Less Than We Fear The Love Of God.

Oh, Do Not Ask, 'what Is It?'/let Us Go And Make Our Visit.