Possessing By Letting Go Of Things Was

I Want To Make A Poem Of My Life.

In The Pale Light Of Daybreak The Gravestones Looked Like So Many White Sails Of Boats Anchored In A Busy Harbor. They Were Sails That Would Never Again Be Filled With Wind, Sails That, Too Long Unused And Heavily Drooping, Had Been Turned Into Stone Just As They Were. The Boats' Anchors Had Been Thrust So Deeply Into The Dark Earth That They Could Never Again Be Raised.

A Father Is A Reality-concealing Machine, A Machine For Dishing Up Lies To Kids, And That Isn't Even The Worst Of It: Secretly He Believes That He Represents Reality.

We Had Stretched Out Our Arms To Each Other And Supported Something In Our Joined Hands, But This Thing We Were Holding Was Like A Sort Of Gas That Exists When You Believe In Its Existence And Disappears When You Doubt. The Task Of Supporting It Seems Simple At First Glance, But Actually Requires An Ultimate Refinement Of Calculation And A Consummate Skill.

It Seems To Me That Before The Photograph Can Exist As Art It Must, By Its Very Nature Choose Whether It Is To Be A Record Or A Testimony.