Always The Beautiful Answer Who Asks A

My Sweet Old Etcetera Aunt Lucy During The Recent War Could And What Is More Did Tell You Just What Everybody Was Fighting For, My Sister Isabel Created Hundreds (and Hundreds) Of Socks Not To Mention Shirts Fleaproof Earwarmers Etcetera Wristers Etcetera, My Mother Hoped That I Would Die Etcetera Bravely Of Course My Father Used To Become Hoarse Talking About How It Was A Privilege And If Only He Could Meanwhile My Self Etcetera Lay Quietly In The Deep Mud Et Cetera (dreaming, Et Cetera, Of Your Smile Eyes Knees And Of Your Etcetera)

You Shall Above All Things Be Glad And Young For If You're Young,whatever Life You Wear It Will Become You;and If You Are Glad Whatever's Living Will Yourself Become.

God's Terrible Face Brighter Than A Spoon Collects The Image Of One Fatal Word;so That My Life(which Liked The Sun And The Moon)resembles Something That Has Not Occurred:i Am A Birdcage Without Any Bird A Collar Looking For A Dog A Kisswithout Lips;a Prayer Lacking Any Kneesbut Something Beats Within My Shirt To Provehe Is Undead Who Living Noone Is.i Have Never Loved You Dear As Now I Love.

I Am Someone Who Proudly And Humbly Affirms That Love Is The Mystery-of-mysteries, And That Nothing Measurable Matters 'a Very Good God Damn'; That 'an Artist, A Man, A Failure' Is No Mere Whenfully Accreting Mechanism, But A Givingly Eternal Complexity-neither Some Soulless And Heartless Ultrapredatory Infra-animal Nor Any Understandingly Knowing And Believing And Thinking Automaton, But A Naturally And Miraculously Whole Human Being-a Feelingly Illimitable Individual; Whose Only Happiness Is To Transcend Himself, Whose Every Agony Is To Grow.

Art Is A Mystery. A Mystery Is Something Immeasurable.