Hands, Matches, An Ashtray. A Ritual Beautiful

As The Future Ripens In The Past, So The Past Rots In The Future -- A Terrible Festival Of Dead Leaves.

Not, Not Mine: It's Somebody Else's Wound; I Could Never Have Borne It. So Take The Thing That Happened, Hide It, Stick It In The Ground; Whisk The Lamps Away.

We Learned Not To Meet Anymore, We Don't Raise Our Eyes To One Another, But We Ourselves Won't Guarantee What Could Happen To Us In An Hour.

Sunset In The Ethereal Waves: I Cannot Tell If The Day Is Ending, Or The World, Or If The Secret Of Secrets Is Inside Me Again.

I Go Forth To Seek To Seek And Claim The Lovely Magic Garden Where Grasses Softly Sigh And Muses Speak.