We Burn So Hard, But We Shed

We Are All Our Own Graveyards, I Believe; We Squat Amongst The Tombs Of The People We Were. If We're Healthy, Every Day Is A Celebration, A Day Of The Dead, In Which We Give Thanks For The Lives That We Lived, And If We Are Neurotic We Brood And Mourn And Wish That The Past Was Still Present.

Everybody Is A Book Of Blood; Wherever We're Opened, We're Red.

And In Time It Will Be As Though Men Had Never Come To This Perfect Corner Of The World-never Called It Paradise On Earth, Never Despoiled It With Their Dream Factories; And In The Golden Hush Of The Afternoon All That Will Be Heard Will Be The Flittering Of Dragonflies, And The Murmur Of Hummingbirds As They Pass From Bower To Bower, Looking For A Place To Sup Sweetness.

I Don't Like To Make A Distinction Between The Writer And The Painter , Finally , Because I Do Both Things Anyway . Everybody's Dreaming And Trying To Put Down Their Dreams In The Way That Their Hand Knows Best . I Feel As Much A Unity , As Much Comradeship , With Painters As I Do Writers .

I Can See In Your Eyes That There’s No Seam Of Untapped Joy Left In You. The Best Of Life Has Come And Gone. Those Days When Sudden Epiphanies Swept Over You, And You Had Visions Of The Rightness Of All Things And Of Your Place Amongst Them; They’re History. You’re In A Darker Place Now.