And I Just Can't Live In This

The Bowed Head, The Buried Face. She Is Silent, She Will Never Speak, Never Forgive, Never Reach A Hand, Never Leave This Frozen Present Tense. All Waits, Suspended. Suspended The Autumn Trees, The Autumn Sky, Anonymous People. A Blackbird, Poor Fool, Sings Out Of Season From The Willows By The Lake. A Flight Of Pigeons Over The Houses; Fragments Of Freedom, Hazard, An Anagram Made Flesh. And Somewhere The Stinging Smell Of Burning Leaves.

Each Age, Each Guilty Age, Builds High Walls Around Its Versailles; And Personally I Hate Those Walls Most When They Are Made By Literature And Art.

There Are Many Reasons Why Novelists Write, But They All Have One Thing In Common - A Need To Create An Alternative World.

To Write Poetry And To Commit Suicide, Apparently So Contradictory, Had Really Been The Same, Attempts At Escape.

I Think We Are Just Insects, We Live A Bit And Then Die And That’s The Lot. There’s No Mercy In Things. There’s Not Even A Great Beyond. There’s Nothing.