The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I

In Reading, A Lonely Quiet Concert Is Given To Our Minds; All Our Mental Faculties Will Be Present In This Symphonic Exaltation.

The World Exists To End Up In A Book.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.