I Write As If To Save Somebody’s

But Don't Forget, In The Meantime, That This Is The Season For Strawberries. Yes.

But I Welcome The Darkness Where The Two Eyes Of That Soft Panther Glow. The Darkness Is My Cultural Broth. The Enchanted Darkness. I Go On Speaking To You, Risking Disconnection: I’m Subterraneously Unattainable Because Of What I Know.

The World's Continual Breathing Is What We Hear And Call Silence.

I Hear The Mad Song Of A Little Bird And Crush Butterflies Between My Fingers.

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