Even Paranoids Have Real Enemies.

Even Paranoids Have Real Enemies.

How Could I Think The Brief Years Were Enough To Prove The Reality Of Endless Love?

Where The Light Is, And Each Thing Clear,separate From All Others, Standing In Its Place,i Drink The Time And Touch Whatever's Near,and Hope For Day When The Whole World Has That Face:for What Assures Her Present Every Year?in Dark Accidents The Mind's Sufficient Grace.

Love Is The Tact Of Every Good, The Only Warmth, The Only Peace.

Major Writing Is To Say That Which Has Been Seen, So That It Need Never Be Said Again; So That Which Has Been Seen Increases, Changes In Reality, In Being.