In Each Thing There Is An Insinuation

Woodcutter. Cut My Shadow From Me. Free Me From The Torment Of Being Without Fruit. Why Was I Born Among Mirrors? Day Goes Round And Round Me. The Night Copies Me In All Its Stars. I Want To Live Without My Reflection. And Then Let Me Dream That Ants And Thistledown Are My Leaves And My Parrots.

The Day That Hunger Is Eradicated From The Earth There Will Be The Greatest Spiritual Explosion The World Has Ever Known. Humanity Cannot Imagine The Joy That Will Burst Into The World.

Just As The Light And Weightless Vegetation Of Saltpeter Floats Over The Old Walls Of Houses As Soon As The Owner Gets Careless, So The Literary Vocation Springs Up In You.

I Have Often Lost Myself In The Sea, Ears Full Of Newly Cut Flowers, Tongue Full Of Love And Agony.

The Terrible, Cold, Cruel Part Is Wall Street. Rivers Of Gold Flow There From All Over The Earth, And Death Comes With It. There, As Nowhere Else, You Feel A Total Absence Of The Spirit: Herds Of Men Who Cannot Count Past Three, Herds More Who Cannot Get Past Six, Scorn For Pure Science And Demoniacal Respect For The Present. And The Terrible Thing Is That The Crowd That Fills The Street Believes That The World Will Always Be The Same And That It Is Their Duty To Keep That Huge Machine Running, Day And Night, Forever.