America Is Woven Of Many Strands. I

If Only All The Contradictory Voices Shouting In My Head Would Calm Down And Sing A Song In Unison, Whatever It Was I Wouldn't Care As Long As They Sang Without Dissonance.

My Hole Is Warm And Full Of Light.

Perhaps Everyone Loved Someone; I Didn't Now, I Couldn't Give Much Thought To Love; In Order To Travel Far You Had To Be Detached, And I Had The Long Road Back To The Campus Before Me.

I Was Looking For Myself And Asking Everyone Except Myself Questions Which I, And Only I, Could Answer.

Our Task, Then Always, Is To Challenge The Apparent Forms Of Reality-that Is, The Fixed Manner And Values Of The Few, And To Struggle With It Until It Reveals Its Mad, Vari-implicated Chaos, Its False Face, And So On Until It Surrenders Its Insight, Its Truth.