I Am Still Alive Then. That May

That Penny Farthing Hell You Call Your Mind

How Long Have I Been Here, What A Question, I've Often Wondered. And Often I Could Answer, An Hour, A Month, A Year, A Century, Depending On What I Meant By Here, And Me, And Being, And There I Never Went Looking For Extravagant Meanings, There I Never Much Varied, Only The Here Would Sometimes Seem To Vary.

Any Fool Can Turn A Blind Eye But Who Knows What The Ostrich Sees In The Sand.

All Poetry, As Discriminated From The Various Paradigms Of Prosody, Is Prayer.

I Marshalled The Words And Opened My Mouth, Thinking I Would Hear Them. But All I Heard Was A Kind Of Rattle, Unintelligible Even To Me Who Knew What Was Intended.