It Is Not A Bad Thing That

Smokers, Male And Female, Inject And Excuse Idleness In Their Lives Every Time They Light A Cigarette.

At Sixty-three Years Of Age, Less A Quarter, One Still Has Plans.

By Means Of An Image We Are Often Able To Hold On To Our Lost Belongings. But It Is The Desperateness Of Losing Which Picks The Flowers Of Memory, Binds The Bouquet.

The Day After That Wedding Night I Found That A Distance Of A Thousand Miles, Abyss And Discovery And Irremediable Metamorphosis, Separated Me From The Day Before.

There Are Days When Solitude, For Someone My Age, Is A Heady Wine That Intoxicates You With Freedom, Others When It Is A Bitter Tonic, And Still Others When It Is A Poison That Makes You Beat Your Head Against The Wall.