To You Who Have Never Died, May

I Dreamt A Limitless Book, A Book Unbound, Its Leaves Scattered In Fantastic Abundance On Every Line There Was A New Horizon Drawn, New Heavens Supposed; New States, New Souls.

Witch, Do This For Me, Find Me A Moon Made Of Longing. Then Cut It Sliver Thin, And Having Cut It, Hang It High Above My Beloved's House, So That She May Look Up Tonight And See It, And Seeing It, Sigh For Me As I Sigh For Her, Moon Or No Moon.

There Is No Such Thing As Originality. It Has All Been Said Before, Suffered Before. If A Person Knows That, Is It Any Wonder Love Becomes Mechanical And Death Just A Scene To Be Shunned? There Is No Absolute Knowledge To Be Gained From Either. Just Another Ride On The Merry-go-round, Another Blurred Scene Of Faces Smiling And Faces Grieved.

A Man Kills The Thing He Loves, And He Must Die A Little Himself.

Let The Mad Find Wisdom In Their Madness For The Sane, And Let The Sane Be Grateful.