Death Had His Grudge Against Me, And

You Keep To Your Own Ways And Leave Mine To Me.

I Had Got This Far, And Was Thinking Of What To Say Next, And As My Habit Is, I Was Pricking The Paper Idly With My Pen. And I Thought How, Between One Dip Of The Pen And The Next, Time Goes On, And I Hurry, Drive Myself, And Speed Toward Death. We Are Always Dying. I While I Write, You While You Read, And Others While They Listen Or Stop Their Ears, They Are All Dying.

Sameness Is The Mother Of Disgust, Variety The Cure.

Wanting Is Not Enough, Long And You Attain It.

For Though I Am A Body Of This Earth, My Firm Desire Is Born From The Stars.