The Sky, At Sunset, Looked Like A

Poetry Is The One Thing That Isn't Contaminated, The One Thing That Isn't Part Of The Game.

…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I Felt Happy Because I Saw The Others Were Happy And Because I Knew I Should Feel Happy, But I Wasn't Really Happy.

Of What Is Lost, Irretrievably Lost, All I Wish To Recover Is The Daily Availability Of My Writing, Lines Capable Of Grasping Me By The Hair And Lifting Me Up When I'm At The End Of My Strength. (significant, Said The Foreigner.) Odes To The Human And The Divine. Let My Writing Be Like The Verses Of By Leopardi That Daniel Biga Recited On A Nordic Bridge To Gird Himself With Courage.

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.

You Run Risks. That's The Plain Truth. You Run Risks And, Even In The Most Unlikely Places, You Are Subject To Destiny's Whims.