The Truth Of The Matter Is We

You Don't Realize What A Strain It Is On The Nerves To Write Or Think-of-writing All Day Long, And To Sleep Full Of Nervous Dreams, And To Wake Up Not Knowing Who One Is: This All Stems From Anxiety About Finishing The Book, About Time 'growing Short', Etc., And The Perpetual Strain Of Invention.

No Fear Or Shame In The Dignity Of Yr Experience, Language & Knowledge

I Swore I'd Be In Chicago Tomorrow, And Made Sure Of That, Taking A Bus To Chicago, Spending Most Of My Money, And Didn't Give A Damn, Just As Long As I'd Be In Chicago Tomorrow.

Rocks Are Space, And Space Is Illusion.

The Human Bones Are But Vain Lines Dawdling, The Whole Universe A Blank Mold Of Stars.