Death's In The Good-bye.

Depression Is Boring, I Think And I Would Do Better To Make Some Soup And Light Up The Cave.

The Little Girl Skipped By Under The Wrinkled Oak Leaves And Held Fast To A Replica Of Herself.

Nature Is Full Of Teeth That Come In One By One, Then Decay, Fall Out.

The Future Is A Fog That Is Still Hanging Out Over The Sea, A Boat That Floats Home Or Does Not. The Trade Winds Blow Me, And I Do Not Know Where The Land Is; The Waves Fold Over Each Other; They Are In Love With Themselves; Sleeping In Their Own Skin; And I Float Over Them And I Do Not Know About Tomorrow.

I Said, The Poets Are There I Hear Them Singing And Lying Around Their Round Table And Around Me Still.