I Had Little Talent For Happiness.

...and A Dream Away In Space With Neither Her Nor There Where All The Footsteps Ever Fell Can Never Fare Nearer To Anywhere Nor From Anywhere Further Away. Nor For In The End Again By Degrees Or As Though Switched On Dark Falls There Again That Certain Dark That Alone Certain Ashes Can. Through It Who Knows Yet Another End Beneath A Cloudless Sky Of A Last End If Ever There Had To Be Another Absolutely Had To Be.

I Have Nothing But Wastes And Wilds Of Self-translation Before Me For Many Miserable Months To Come.

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

To Restore Silence Is The Role Of Objects.

I Tried To Groan, Help! Help! But The Tone That Came Out Was That Of Polite Conversation.