True Life Is Elsewhere

It Was The Voice Of Mad Seas, Roaring Immense,/ That Shattered Your Infant Breast, Too Soft, Too Human.

The Wolf Howled Under The Leaves And Spit Out The Prettiest Feathers Of His Meal Of Fowl: Like Him I Consume Myself.

Faith Assuages, Guides, Restores.

Life Is The Farce Which Everyone Has To Perform.

...i Is Another. If The Brass Wakes The Trumpet, It’s Not Its Fault. That’s Obvious To Me: I Witness The Unfolding Of My Own Thought: I Watch It, I Hear It: I Make A Stroke With The Bow: The Symphony Begins In The Depths, Or Springs With A Bound Onto The Stage. If The Old Imbeciles Hadn’t Discovered Only The False Significance Of Self, We Wouldn’t Have To Now Sweep Away Those Millions Of Skeletons Which Have Been Piling Up The Products Of Their One-eyed Intellect Since Time Immemorial, And Claiming Themselves To Be Their Authors!