Only Mystery Allows Us To Live, Only

My Head Is Full Of Fire And Grief And My Tongue Runs Wild, Pierced With Shards Of Glass.

But Hurry, Let's Entwine Ourselves As One, Our Mouth Broken, Our Soul Bitten By Love, So Time Discovers Us Safely Destroyed.

Not For A Moment, Beautiful Aged Walt Whitman, Have I Failed To See Your Beard Full Of Butterflies.

There Is Nothing More Poetic And Terrible Than The Skyscrapers' Battle With The Heavens That Cover Them.

Even Money, Which Shines So Much, Spits Sometimes.