One Should Not Believe Too Strongly In

I Don't Fear Death. I'm Not Obsessed With It The Way Everybody Else Seems To Be.

A Light Snow, A Snow So Faint And Small-bodied That It Seems Nothing More Than A Manifestation Of The Cold.

I Write Down Portions, Maybe Fragments, And Perhaps An Imperfect View Of What Im Hoping To Write. Out Of That, I Keep Trying To Find Exactly What I Want.

One Is Seduced And Battered In Turn. The Result Is Presumably Wisdom. Wisdom! We Are Clinging To Life Like Lizards. Why Is It So Difficult To Assemble Those Things That Really Matter In Life And To Dwell Among Them Only? I Am Referring To Certain Landscapes, Persons, Beasts, Books, Rooms, Meteorological Conditions, Fruits. In Fact, I Insist On It. A Letter Is Like A Poem, It Leaps Into Life And Shows Very Clearly The Marks, Perhaps I Should Say Thumbprints, Of An Unwilling Or Unready Composer.

Life Passes Into Pages If It Passes Into Anything.