The First Year Was Like Icing. Then

Some Certified Nut Will Try To Tell You It's Poetry, (it's Extraordinary, It Makes A Great Deal Of Sense) But Watch Out Or He'll Start With Some New Notion Or Other.

Death Is A New Office Building Filled With Modern Furniture, A Wise Thing, But Which Has No Purpose For Us.

The First Year Was Like Icing. Then The Cake Started To Show Through.

Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their Objects Find?

Somewhere Someone Is Traveling Furiously Toward You, At Incredible Speed, Traveling Day And Night, Through Blizzards And Desert Heat, Across Torrents, Through Narrow Passes. But Will He Know Where To Find You, Recognize You When He Sees You, Give You The Thing He Has For You?