Man Is A Creation Of Desire, Not

We Comfort Ourselves By Reliving Memories Of Protection

The Repose Of Sleep Refreshes Only The Body. It Rarely Sets The Soul At Rest. The Repose Of The Night Does Not Belong To Us. It Is Not The Possession Of Our Being. Sleep Opens Within Us An Inn For Phantoms. In The Morning We Must Sweep Out The Shadows.

In Writing, You Discover Interior Sonorities In Words. Dipthongs Sound Differently Beneath The Pen. One Hears Them With Their Sounds Divorced.

The Poetic Image Is A Sudden Salience On The Surface Of The Psyche

What Action Could Bodies And Substances Have If They Were Not Named In A Further Increase Of Dignity Where Common Nouns Become Proper Nouns?