I, Who Called Love My Hope For

Putting My Hand In Someone Else’s Has Always Been My Definition Of Happiness. Before I Fall Asleep, Often - In That Small Struggle Not To Lose Consciousness And Go Into The Greater World - Often, Before I Get Up The Courage To Go Into The Vastness Of Sleep, I Pretend That Someone Has My Hand In Theirs, And Then I Go, Go To That Enormous Absence Of Form That Is Sleep. And When Even After That I Don’t Have Courage, I Dream.

In The World There Exists No Aesthetic Plane, Not Even The Aesthetic Plane Of Goodness.

My Life, The Most Truthful One, Is Unrecognizable, Extremely Interior, And There Is No Single Word That Gives It Meaning.

At First She Dreamed Of Sheep, Of Going To School, Of Cats Drinking Milk. Little By Little She Dreamed Of Blue Sheep, Of Going To School In The Middle Of The Woods, Of Cats Drinking Milk From Golden Saucers. And Her Dreams Became Increasingly Dense And Acquired Colours That Were Difficult To Dilute Into Words.

Holding Someone's Hand Was Always My Idea Of Joy.