The Sky, At Sunset, Looked Like A

The Sky, At Sunset, Looked Like A Carnivorous Flower.

One Should Read Borges More.

Bright Colours In The West, Giant Butterflies Dancing As Night Crept Like A Cripple Toward The East.

Of What Is Lost, Irretrievably Lost, All I Wish To Recover Is The Daily Availability Of My Writing, Lines Capable Of Grasping Me By The Hair And Lifting Me Up When I'm At The End Of My Strength. (significant, Said The Foreigner.) Odes To The Human And The Divine. Let My Writing Be Like The Verses Of By Leopardi That Daniel Biga Recited On A Nordic Bridge To Gird Himself With Courage.

I'm An Educated Man, The Prisons I Know Are Subtle Ones.