It's Been A Long Time Since I've

The Chill Of What I Won't Feel Gnaws At My Present Heart.

Your Poems Are Of Interest To Mankind; Your Liver Isn't. Drink Till You Write Well And Feel Sick. Bless Your Poems And Be Damned To You.

And Let Our Despite Go To Those Who Work And Fight And Our Hate To Those Who Hope And Trust.

But Do We Really Live? To Live Without Knowing What Life Is - Is That Living?

Nostalgia! I Feel It Even For Someone Who Meant Nothing To Me, Out Of Anxiety For The Flight Of Time And A Sickness Bred Of The Mystery Of Life. If One Of The Faces I Pass Daily On The Streets Disappears, I Feel Sad; Yet They Meant Nothing To Me, Other Than Being A Symbol Of All Life.