Each Day I Live In A Glass

Something To Remember, That: Cats For Missiles.

Each Day I Live In A Glass Room Unless I Break It With The Thrusting Of My Senses And Pass Through The Splintered Walls To The Great Landscape.

This Tower, Patched Unevenly With Black Ivy, Arose Like A Mutilated Finger From Among The Fists Of Knuckled Masonry And Pointed Blasphemously At Heaven. At Night The Owls Made Of It An Echoing Throat; By Day It Stood Voiceless And Cast Its Long Shadow.

[peake's Books] Are Actual Additions To Life; They Give, Like Certain Rare Dreams, Sensations We Never Had Before, And Enlarge Our Conception Of The Range Of Possible Experience.

Yet Not With All Of Me Am I In Love. Too Much Of My Own Quietness Is With Me.