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

Let Us Define 'man' As A Poet Perpetually Conspiring Against Himself.

I Have Decided To Leave Clea’s Last Letter Un-answered. I No Longer Wish To Coerce Anyone, To Make Promises, To Think Of Life In Terms Of Compacts, Resolutions, Covenants. It Will Be Up To Clea To Interpret My Silence According To Her Own Needs And Desires, To Come To Me If She Has Need Or Not, As The Case May Be. Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?

To Write A Poem Is Like Trying To Catch A Lizard Without Its Tail Falling Off.

Truth Is What Most Contradicts Itself.

The Richest Love Is That Which Submits To The Arbitration Of Time.