Maybe The World, Without Us, Is The

I Know I Can Walk Through The World, Along The Shore Or Under The Trees, With My Mind Filled With Things Of Little Importance, In Full Self-attendance. A Condition I Can't Really Call Being Alive.

I Feel The Terror Of Idleness, Like A Red Thirst. Death Isn't Just An Idea.

There Are A Hundred Paths Through The World That Are Easier Than Loving. But Who Wants Easier?

There Is A Notion That Creative People Are Absent-minded, Reckless, Heedless Of Social Customs And Obligations. It Is, Hopefully, True For They Are In Another World Altogether.

Why Should I Not Sit, Every Morning Of My Life, On The Hillside, Looking Into The Shining World?