There Have Always Been Those Who, Though

Now I Know Surely And Forever, However Much I Have Blotted Our Waking Love, Its Memory Is Still There. And I Know The Web, The Net, The Blind And Crippled Bird. For Then, For One Brief Instant It Was Not Blind, Nor Trapped, Not Crippled. For One Heart Beat The Heart Was Free And Moved Itself. O Love, I Who Am Lost And Damned With Words, Whose Words Are A Business And An Art, I Have No Words. These Words, This Poem, This Is All Confusion And Ignorance. But I Know That Coached By Your Sweet Heart, My Heart Beat One Free Beat And Sent Through All My Flesh The Blood Of Truth.

The Holiness Of The Real Is Always There, Accessible In Total Immanence. The Nodes Of Transcendence Coagulate In You, The Experiencer, And In The Other, The Lover.

Men Who Live Like Casanova Are Seldom Interested In Themselves; Their Egocentricity Does Not Give Them Time For Egotism.

Any Talented Decadent Can Make Unreality Believable. To Make Reality Convincing Is Another Matter, A Matter For Only The Greatest Masters.

The Meaning Of Life Can Be Revealed But Never Explained.