…perhaps This Momentary Life Of Ours Is

Sharp Nostalgia, Infinite And Terrible, For What I Already Possess.

I Am Not I. I Am This One Walking Beside Me Whom I Do Not See, Whom At Times I Manage To Visit, And Whom At Other Times I Forget; Who Remains Calm And Silent While I Talk, And Forgives, Gently, When I Hate, Who Walks Where I Am Not, Who Will Remain Standing When I Die.

My Only Two Weapons: Time And Silence.

Rodin Picks A Mushroom Delighted, And Shows It To Madame Rodin... "look," He Says Excitedly, "and That Takes But A Single Night! In One Night All These Are Made, All These Lamellas. That Is Good Work."

Some Of My Affectionate Envious Friends Say, "you Write Too Much." Maybe, I Answer. But As Long As The Best Of Your Little Is Worse Than The Worst Of My Much, I Will Keep On Doing So.