To Be Mad Is To Feel With

As It Somehow Always Manages Before The Winter Solstice, But Never After, The Early Darkness Was Cheerful And Promising, Even For Those Who Had Nothing.

We Launch Our Souls From The Cannons Of Art And Discipline, And On Any One Night, Hovering Over The Chimney Tops Of Europe, Halfway To The Stars, There Are Armies Of Brightly Spinning Spirits That Have Risen Like Fireworks, Tethered To The Souls Of Those Men And Women Who, By Reflection, Mortification, And Devotion, Effortlessly Outdazzle Kings.

The Human Race Is Intoxicated With Narrow Victories, For Life Is A String Of Them Like Pearls That Hit The Floor When The Rope Breaks, And Roll Away In Perfection And Anarchy.

[when] He's Here, He's Always Reading. He Says Books Stop Time. I Myself Think He's Crazy...don't Tell Anyone, But When He Reads Something That He Likes He Gets Real Happy, Turns On The Music, And Dances By Himself, Or With A Broom Sometimes.

From Long Familiarity, We Know What Honor Is. It Is What Enables The Individual To Do Right In The Face Of Complacency And Cowardice. It Is What Enables The Soldier To Die Alone, The Political Prisoner To Resist, The Singer To Sing Her Song, Hardly Appreciated, On A Side Street.