I'm Vain Enough To Think That I've

The Heart Lies To Itself Because It Must.

We Must Unlearn The Constellations To See The Stars.

We Must Risk Delight. We Can Do Without Pleasure, But Not Delight. Not Enjoyment. We Must Have The Stubbornness To Accept Our Gladness In The Ruthless Furnace Of This World. To Make Injustice The Only Measure Of Our Attention Is To Praise The Devil.

But Anything Worth Doing Is Worth Doing Badly. Like Being There By That Summer Ocean On The Other Side Of The Island While Love Was Fading Out Of Her, The Stars Burning So Extravagantly Those Nights That Anyone Could Tell You They Would Never Last.

We Are Surrounded By The Absurd Excess Of The Universe. By Meaningless Bulk, Vastness Without Size, Power Without Consequence. The Stubborn Iteration That Is Present Without Being Felt. Nothing The Spirit Can Marry. Merely Phenomenon And Its Physics. An Endless, Endless Of Going On. No Habitat Where The Brain Can Recognize Itself. No Pertinence For The Heart. Helpless Duplication.