In Those Days It Was Either Live

I Was Looking For Myself And Asking Everyone Except Myself Questions Which I, And Only I, Could Answer.

Having Tried To Give Pattern To The Chaos Which Lives Within The Pattern Of Your Certainties, I Must Come Out, I Must Emerge.

But What A Feeling Can Come Over A Man Just From Seeing The Things He Believes In And Hopes For Symbolized In The Concrete Form Of A Man. In Something That Gives A Focus To All The Other Things He Knows To Be Real. Something That Makes Unseen Things Manifest And Allows Him To Come To His Hopes And Dreams Through His Outer Eye And Through The Touch And Feel Of His Natural Hand.

So Why Do I Write, Torturing Myself To Put It Down? Because In Spite Of Myself I've Learned Some Things. Without The Possibility Of Action, All Knowledge Comes To One Labeled "file And Forget," And I Can Neither File Nor Forget. Nor Will Certain Ideas Forget Me; They Keep Filing Away At My Lethargy, My Complacency. Why Should I Be The One To Dream This Nightmare?

Perhaps To Lose A Sense Of Where You Are Implies The Danger Of Losing A Sense Of Who You Are.