I Am Caught Like A Beast At

I Have The Impression That If He Didn't Complicate His Life So Needlessly, He Would Die Of Boredom.

Gregariousness Is Always The Refuge Of Mediocrities, Whether They Swear By Soloviev Or Kant Or Marx. Only Individuals Seek The Truth, And They Shun Those Whose Sole Concern Is Not The Truth.

February. Get Ink, Shed Tears. Write Of It, Sob Your Heart Out, Sing, While Torrential Slush That Roars Burns In The Blackness Of The Spring. Go Hire A Buggy. For Six Grivnas, Race Through The Noice Of Bells And Wheels To Where The Ink And All You Grieving Are Muffled When The Rainshower Falls. To Where, Like Pears Burnt Black As Charcoal, A Myriad Rooks, Plucked From The Trees, Fall Down Into The Puddles, Hurl Dry Sadness Deep Into The Eyes. Below, The Wet Black Earth Shows Through, With Sudden Cries The Wind Is Pitted, The More Haphazard, The More True The Poetry That Sobs Its Heart Out.

I Am Alone; All Drowns In The Pharisees' Hypocrisy. To Live Your Life Is Not As Simple As To Cross A Field.

They Loved Each Other, Not Driven By Necessity, By The "blaze Of Passion" Often Falsely Ascribed To Love. They Loved Each Other Because Everything Around Them Willed It, The Trees And The Clouds And The Sky Over Their Heads And The Earth Under Their Feet.