I Had Little Talent For Happiness.

Name, No, Nothing Is Nameable, Tell, No, Nothing Can Be Told, What Then, I Don't Know, I Shouldn't Have Begun.

There's Man All Over For You, Blaming On His Boots The Fault Of His Feet.

The Essential Is To Go On Squirming Forever At The End Of The Line, As Long As There Are Waters And Banks And Ravening In Heaven Asporting God To Plague His Creature, Per Pro His Chosen Shits.

I Try. I Fail. I Try Again. I Fail Better.

What Are We Doing Here, That Is The Question.