If Life Is Misery, Why Do We

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

Nothing Is Ever Behind Us.

The Sky, At Sunset, Looked Like A Carnivorous Flower.

When I Was Done Traveling, I Returned Convinced Of One Thing: We're Nothing.

Of What Is Lost, Irretrievably Lost, All I Wish To Recover Is The Daily Availability Of My Writing, Lines Capable Of Grasping Me By The Hair And Lifting Me Up When I'm At The End Of My Strength. (significant, Said The Foreigner.) Odes To The Human And The Divine. Let My Writing Be Like The Verses Of By Leopardi That Daniel Biga Recited On A Nordic Bridge To Gird Himself With Courage.