A Few Days Back Someone Sent Me

The Whisper Of The Blood And The Pleading Of The Bone Marrow.

I Suffered No Pain, My Hunger Had Taken The Edge Off; Instead I Felt Pleasantly Empty, Untouched By Everything Around Me And Happy To Be Unseen By All. I Put My Legs Up On The Bench And Leaned Back, The Best Way To Feel The True Well-being Of Seclusion. There Wasn't A Cloud In My Mind, Nor Did I Feel Any Discomfort, And I Hadn't A Single Unfulfilled Desire Or Craving As Far As My Thought Could Reach. I Lay With Open Eyes In A State Of Utter Absence From Myself And Felt Deliciously Out Of It.

Language Must Resound With All The Harmonies Of Music. The Writer Must Always, At All Times, Find The Tremulous Word Which Captures The Thing And Is Able To Draw A Sob From My Soul By Its Very Rightness.

There Was A Rock In Front Of My Hut, A Tall, Gray Rock. By Its Looks It Seemed To Be Well-disposed Toward Me.

And The Great Spirit Of Darkness Spread A Shroud Over Me...everything Was Silent-everything. But Upon The Heights Soughed The Everlasting Song, The Voice Of The Air, The Distant, Toneless Humming Which Is Never Silent.