She Thougt Of Sunrise Over The Library

She Touched The Edge Of Its Voluptuous Field, Knowing It Would Be Lovely Beyond Dreams Simply To Submit To It; That Not Gravity's Pull, Laws Of Ballistics, Feral Ravening, Promised More Delight. She Tested It, Shivering: I Am Meant To Remember. Each Clue That Comes Is Supposed To Have Its Own Clarity, Its Fine Chances For Permanence. But Then She Wondered If The Gemlike "clues" Were Only Some Kind Of Compensation. To Make Up For Her Having Lost The Direct, Epileptic Word, The Cry That Might Abolish The Night.

If The World Offered Nothing, Nowhere To Support Or Make Bearable Whatever Her Private Grief Was, Then It Is That World, And Not She, That Is At Fault.

Ills Are Many, Blessings Few, But Dreams Tonight Will Shelter You.

He Decided That We Suffer From Great Temporal Homesickness For The Decade We Were Born In.

There Is Nothing So Loathsome As A Sentimental Surrealist.