I'm Sorry, But I Was Born With

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

There Are No Hierarchies, No Infinite, No Such Many As Mass, There Are Only/ Eyes In All Heads,/ To Be Looked Out Of.

Were All Moving, Moving, Moving. Isnt It Nice?

Not One Death But Many, Not Accumulation But Change, The Feed-back Proves, The Feed-back Is The Law

The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.