Let Us Sculpt In Hopeless Silence All

The Unnatural And The Strange Have A Perfume Of Their Own

To Live Strikes Me As A Metaphysical Mistake Of Matter, A Dereliction Of Inaction.

As I Walk, I Construct Perfect Sentences That I Cannot Remember Later At Home. I Don’t Know If The Ineffable Poetry Of Those Sentences Derived From What They Were Or From Their Never Having Been (written).

I Look For Myself But Find No One. I Belong To The Chrysanthemum Hour Of Bright Flowers Placed In Tall Vases. I Should Make An Ornament Of My Soul.

Liberty Is The Possibility Of Isolation.