Wolves Don't Hunt Singly, But Always In

We All Write Poems; It Is Simply That Poets Are The Ones Who Write In Words.

Medieval Theologians Used To Dispute How The Angels In The Heaven Spent Their Time, When Not Balancing On Needle Points And Singing Anthems To The Lord. I Know. They Slump Glued To Their Clouds, Glasses At The Ready, As The Archangel Micheal (that Well-known Slasher) And Stonewalling St Peter Open Against The Devils Xi. It Could Not Be Heaven, Otherwise.

People Knew Less Of Each Other, Perhaps, But They Felt More Free Of Each Other, And So Were More Individual. The Entire World Was Not For Them Only A Push Or A Switch Away. Strangers Were Strange, And Sometimes With An Exciting, Beautiful Strangeness. It May Be Better For Humanity That We Should Communicate More And More.

Hazard Has Conditioned Us To Live In Hazard. All Our Pleasures Are Dependent On It. Even Though I Arrange For A Pleasure, And Look Forward To It, My Eventual Enjoyment Of It Is Still A Matter Of Hazard. Wherever Time Passes, There Is Hazard.

Our Accepting What We Are Must Always Inhibit Our Being What We Ought To Be.