Words Are All We Have.

Ah, The Old Questions, The Old Answers, There's Nothing Like Them!

Light Black. From Pole To Pole.

There's Something Dripping In My Head. A Heart, A Heart In My Head.

It Is Suicide To Be Abroad. But What It Is To Be At Home, ... What It Is To Be At Home? A Lingering Dissolution.

I Open The Door Of The Cell And Go. I Am So Bowed I Only See My Feet, If I Open My Eyes, And Between My Legs A Little Trail Of Black Dust. I Say To Myself That The Earth Is Extinguished, Though I Never Saw It Lit.