But The More Poetry One Reads The

Ach, Tchekov! Why Are You Dead? Why Can’t I Talk To You In A Big Darkish Room At Late Evening—where The Light Is Green From The Waving Trees Outside? I’d Like To Write A Series Of Heavens: That Would Be One.

I Want, By Understanding Myself, To Understand Others. I Want To Be All That I Am Capable Of Becoming.... This All Sounds Very Strenuous And Serious. But Now That I Have Wrestled With It, It's No Longer So. I Feel Happy- Deep Down. All Is Well.

Wind Moving Through Grass So That The Grass Quivers. This Moves Me With An Emotion I Don't Even Understand.

Courage Is Like A Disobedient Dog, Once It Starts Running Away It Flies All The Faster For Your Attempts To Recall It.

I Must Say, I Hate Money. But It's The Lack Of It I Hate Most.