There Are Two Kinds Of Hangover: In

That's The Trouble With Provincial Life. Everyone Knows Everyone And There Is No Mystery. No Romance.

I Am Infinitely Strange To Myself.

But I Think The Most Harmful Change Brought About By Victorian Science In Our Attitude To Nature Lies In The Demand That Our Relation With It Must Be Purposive, Industrious, Always Seeking Greater Knowledge.

The Bowed Head, The Buried Face. She Is Silent, She Will Never Speak, Never Forgive, Never Reach A Hand, Never Leave This Frozen Present Tense. All Waits, Suspended. Suspended The Autumn Trees, The Autumn Sky, Anonymous People. A Blackbird, Poor Fool, Sings Out Of Season From The Willows By The Lake. A Flight Of Pigeons Over The Houses; Fragments Of Freedom, Hazard, An Anagram Made Flesh. And Somewhere The Stinging Smell Of Burning Leaves.

Forgetting’s Not Something You Do, It Happens To You. Only It Didn’t Happen To Me.