I Am In Terror Of The Infinity

Pain ... After You've Lived With It Long Enough, Isn't Pain Anymore. It's Something Else.

It Is Not That Love Sometimes Makes Mistakes, But That It Is, Essentially, A Mistake. We Fall In Love When Our Imagination Projects Nonexistent Perfections On To Another Person. One Day The Phantasmagoria Vanishes, And With It Love Dies.

The Idea That Certain Things In Life - And In The Universe - Don't Yield Up Their Secrets Is Something That Requires A Slightly More Mature Reader To Accept.

The Night ... It Is Filled With Bestial Watchmen, Trammeling The Extremities And The Interstices Of The Timeless City, Portents Fallen, Constellated Deities Plummeting In Ash And Smoke, Roaming The Apocryphal Cities, The Cities Of Speculation And Reconstituted Disorder, Of Insemination And Incipience, Swept Round With The Dark.

A Poet Is Wounded Into Speech, And He Examines These Wounds, Meticulously, To Discover How To Heal Them. The Bad Poet Harangues At The Pain And Yowls At The Weapons That Lacerate Him; The Great Poet Explores The Inflamed Lips Of Ruined Flesh With Ice-caked Fingers, Glittering And Precise; But Ultimately His Poem Is The Echoing, Dual Voice Reporting The Damages.