Melancholy Is Sadness That Has Taken On

You'll Understand When You've Forgotten What You Understood Before

Arriving At Each New City, The Traveler Finds Again A Past Of His That He Did Not Know He Had: The Foreignness Of What You No Longer Are Or No Longer Possess Lies In Wait For You In Foreign, Unpossessed Places.

I Could Distinguish The Shape Of Her Bosom, Her Arms, Her Thighs, Just As I Remember Them Now, Just As Now, When The Moon Has Become That Flat, Remote Circle, I Still Look For Her As Soon As The First Sliver Appears In The Sky, And The More It Waxes, The More Clearly I Imagine I Can See Her, Her Or Something Of Her, But Only Her, In A Hundred, A Thousand Different Vistas, She Who Makes The Moon The Moon And, Whenever She Is Full, Sets The Dogs To Howling All Night Long, And Me With Them.

The More One Was Lost In Unfamiliar Quarters Of Distant Cities, The More One Understood The Other Cities He Had Crossed To Arrive There.

The Inferno Of The Living Is Not Something That Will Be; If There Is One, It Is What Is Already Here, The Inferno Where We Live Every Day, That We Form By Being Together. There Are Two Ways To Escape Suffering It. The First Is Easy For Many: Accept The Inferno And Become Such A Part Of It That You Can No Longer See It. The Second Is Risky And Demands Constant Vigilance And Apprehension: Seek And Learn To Recognize Who And What, In The Midst Of Inferno, Are Not Inferno, Then Make Them Endure, Give Them Space.