It's A Pity One Can't Imagine What

For I Do Not Exist: There Exist But The Thousands Of Mirrors That Reflect Me.

The Summer Night Was Starless And Stirless, With Distant Spasms Of Silent Lightning.

A Masterpiece Of Fiction Is An Original World And As Such Is Not Likely To Fit The World Of The Reader.

I Was The Shadow Of The Waxwing Slain/by The False Azure In The Windowpane.

A Sense Of Security, Of Well-being, Of Summer Warmth Pervades My Memory. That Robust Reality Makes A Ghost Of The Present. The Mirror Brims With Brightness; A Bumblebee Has Entered The Room And Bumps Against The Ceiling. Everything Is As It Should Be, Nothing Will Ever Change, Nobody Will Ever Die.