We Converse As We Live By Repeating,

But The Body Fails Us And The Mirror Knows, And We No Longer Insist That The Gray Hush Be Carried Off Its Surface By The Cloth, For We Have Run To Fat, And Wrinkles Encircle The Eyes And Notch The Neck Where The Skin Wattles, And The Flesh Of The Arms Hangs Loose Like An Overlarge Sleeve, Veins Thicken Like Ropes And Empurple The Body As Though They Had Been Drawn There By A Pen, Freckles Darken, Liver Spots Appear, The Hairah, The Hair Is Exhausted And Gray And Lusterless, In Weary Rolls Like Cornered Lint.

The True Alchemists Do Not Change Lead Into Gold; They Change The World Into Words.

Blue Is Therefore Most Suitable As The Color Of Interior Life.

I Don't Know Myself, What To Do, Where To Go... I Lie In The Crack Of A Book For My Comfort... It's What The World Offers... Please Leave Me Alone To Dream As I Fancy.

As Rilke Observed, Love Requires A Progressive Shortening Of The Senses: I Can See You For Miles; I Can Hear You For Blocks, I Can Smell You, Maybe, For A Few Feet, But I Can Only Touch On Contact, Taste As I Devour