All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind

Death: The Anaesthetic From Which None Come Round.

Novels Seem To Me To Be Richer, Broader, Deeper, More Enjoyable Than Poems.

I Am Beginning To Think Of The Human Imagination As A Fruit Machine On Which Victories Are Rare And Separated By Much Vain Expense, And Represent A Rare Alignment Of Mental And Spiritual Qualities That Normally Are Quite At Odds.

I Listen To Money Singing, It's Like Looking Down From Long French Windows At A Provincial Town. The Slums, The Canal, The Churches Ornate And Mad In The Evening Sun. It Is Intensely Sad.

Slowly Light Strengthens, And The Room Takes Shape. It Stands Plain As A Wardrobe, What We Know, Have Always Known, Know That We Can't Escape, Yet Can't Accept. One Side Will Have To Go. Meanwhile Telephones Crouch, Getting Ready To Ring In Locked-up Offices, And All The Uncaring Intricate Rented World Begins To Rouse. The Sky Is White As Clay, With No Sun. Work Has To Be Done. Postmen Like Doctors Go From House To House.