Escape? There Is One Unwatched Way: Your

Numbers Of The Old People Cannot Read. Those Who Can Seldom Do

Walking Abroad, One Is The Admiration Of All Little Boys, And Meets An Approving Glance From Every Eye Of Elderly.

All I Ask Is To Be Held Above The Barren Wastes Of Want.

No-man's Land Under Snow Is Like The Face Of The Moon: Chaotic, Crater Ridden, Uninhabitable, Awful, The Abode Of Madness.

Do You Know What Would Hold Me Together On A Battlefield? The Sense That I Was Perpetuating The Language In Which Keats And The Rest Of Them Wrote!