We Exist With A Wind Whispering Inside

The Woman Is Not Just A Pleasure, Nor Even A Problem. She Is A Meniscus That Allows The Absolute To Have A Shape, That Lets Him Skate However Briefly On The Mystery, Her Presence Luminous On The Ordinary And The Grand. Like The Odor At Night In Pittsburgh’s Empty Streets After Summer Rain On Maples And Sycamore.

I Dream Of Lost Vocabularies That Might Express Some Of What We No Longer Can.

Question The Bravery. Say It's Not Courage. Call It A Passion.

To Hear The Faint Sound Of Oars In The Silence As A Rowboat Comes Slowly Out And Then Goes Back Is Truly Worth All The Years Of Sorrow That Are To Come.

Why Do So Manysettle For So Little? I Don't Understand Why They're Not Greedy For What's Inside Them.