It Was Evident To Him That The

There Are Moments When I Cannot Bear This Unremitting Consciousness. It Knows Only Itself. Awake, I Am In A Continuum With My Dreams. I Feel My Typewriters, My Table, My Chair To Have That Assurance Of A Solid World, Where Things Take Up Space, Where Is Not The Endless Emptiness Of Insubstantial Thought That Leads To Nowhere But Itself. My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon Them Again And Again. They Become More And More Ghostly. I Fear Nothing So Much As Losing Them Altogether And Having Only My Blank Endless Mind To Live In.

The Poem Is A Cry Of The Unborn Heart. Yes, Because The Poem Perfectly Embodies The World, There Is No World Without Poem.

I Am Telling You What I Know—words Have Music And If You Are A Musician You Will Write To Hear Them.

Dad Is Always Hiding In His Book.

The Images Of Things Are Not The Things In Themselves.