Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

One Should Read Borges More.

We All Have To Die A Bit Every Now And Then And Usually It's So Gradual That We End Up More Alive Than Ever. Infinitely Old And Infinitely Alive.

As Time Goes By, As Time Goes By, The Whip-crack Of The Years, The Precipice Of Illusions, The Ravine That Swallows Up All Human Endeavour Except The Struggle To Survive.

Death, In The Eastern Tradition, Was Only A Passage. What Wasn't Clear ... Was Toward What Place, What Reality, That Passage Led.

The Secret Story Is The One We'll Never Know, Although We're Living It From Day To Day, Thinking We're Alive, Thinking We've Got It All Under Control And The Stuff We Overlook Doesn't Matter.