I'm Trying To Die Correctly, But It's

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

I See Artists As A Great Battalion Moving Through Paint, Words, Music Towards Cosmological Interpretation.

Of Women, The Most We Can Say, Not Being Frenchmen, Is That They Are Burrowing Animals.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.

Truth Disappears With The Telling Of It.