The Pattern Of The Narrative Never Of

No Matter How Wild Reality Was Obviously Often Being, It Was An Absolutely Secure Place, As A Tone And Intelligence, And A Thing Happening.

God Give You Pardon From Gratitude And Other Mild Forms Of Servitude.

Form Is Never More Than An Extension Of Content.

Moon, Moon, When You Leave Me Alone All The Darkness Is An Utter Blackness, A Pit Of Fear, A Stench, Hands Unreasonable Never To Touch. But I Love You. Do You Love Me. What To Say When You See Me.

It Is Hard Going To The Door Cut So Small In The Wall Where The Vision Which Echoes Loneliness Brings A Scent Of Wild Flowers In The Wood.