Unless The Gentle Inherit The Earth, /

At Any Moment Solitude May Put On The Face Of Loneliness.

It Is Curious How Any Making Of Order Makes One Feel Mentally Ordered, Ordered Inside.

It Feels A Long Way Up And Down From Zero.

A Man With A Talent Does What Is Expected Of Him, Makes His Way, Constructs, Is An Engineer, A Composer, A Builder Of Bridges. It's The Natural Order Of Things That He Construct Objects Outside Himself And His Family. The Woman Who Does So Is Aberrant. We Have To Expiate For This Cursed Talent Someone Handed Out To Us, By Mistake, In The Black Mystery Of Genetics.

Poetry Is First Of All A Way Of Life And Only Secondarily A Way Of Writing.