We All Write Poems; It Is Simply

Alive. Alive In The Way That Death Is Alive.

People Who Teach You Cram Old Ideas, Old Views, Old Ways, Into You. Like Covering Plants With Layer After Layer Of Old Earth; It's No Wonder The Poor Things So Rarely Come Up Fresh And Green.

We Talked For Hours. He Talked And I Listened. It Was Like Wind And Sunlight. It Blew All The Cobwebs Away.

To Write Poetry And To Commit Suicide, Apparently So Contradictory, Had Really Been The Same, Attempts At Escape.

People Knew Less Of Each Other, Perhaps, But They Felt More Free Of Each Other, And So Were More Individual. The Entire World Was Not For Them Only A Push Or A Switch Away. Strangers Were Strange, And Sometimes With An Exciting, Beautiful Strangeness. It May Be Better For Humanity That We Should Communicate More And More.