The Slime Of All My Yesterdays Rots

Compared With Me, A Tree Is Immortal.

The Thought That I Might Kill Myself Formed In My Mind Coolly As A Tree Or A Flower.

I Felt Dumb And Subdued. Every Time I Tried To Concentrate, My Mind Glided Off, Like A Skater, Into A Large Empty Space, And Pirouetted There, Absently.

Is There No Way Out Of The Mind?

If You Dissect A Bird / To Diagram The Tongue, / You'll Cut The Chord / Articulating Song.