The Gray Glaze Of The Past Attacks

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

I Listen To Music A Great Deal. In A Way, It's Trying To Express Things That Can't Be Expressed In Words. That's Something That Interests Me, Too. Even Though I Use Words To Express Myself, I Am Trying To, It Seems To Me, Get Beyond That.

One Can Lose A Good Idea By Not Writing It Down, Yet By Losing It One Can Have It: It Nourishes Other Asides It Knows Nothing Of, Would Not Recognize Itself In, Yet When The Negotiations Are Terminated, Speaks In The Acts Of That Progenitor, And Does Recognize Itself, Is Grateful For Not Having Done So Earlier.

The Ellipse Is As Aimless As That, Stretching Invisibly Into The Future So As To Reappear In Our Present. Its Flexing Is Its Account, Return To The Point Of No Return.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.