I Tried Each Thing, Only Some Were

Its A Bit Mad. Too Bad, I Mean, That Getting To Know Each Just For A Fleeting Second Must Be Replaced By Unperfect Knowledge Of The Featureless Whole Like Some Pocket History Of The World, So General As To Constitute A Sob Or Wail

The Soul Establishes Itself. But How Far Can It Swim Out Through The Eyes And Still Return Safely To Its Nest?

The Soul Is Not A Soul, Has No Secret, Is Small, And It Fits Its Hollow Perfectly: Its Room, Our Moment Of Attention.

Once You've Lived In France, You Don't Want To Live Anywhere Else, Including France.

I'm Heading For A Clean-named Place Like Wisconsin, And Mad As A Jack-o'-lantern, Will Get There Without Help And Nosy Proclivities.