My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon

I Have Committed Many Sins In My Life. This Precise Sin-the Sin Against Poets-is Without Absolution.

Uncharged With Invisible Meaning, The Visible Is Nothing, Mere Clay; And Without Visible Circumstance, A Territory, To Connect To, Our Spirit Is Shapeless, Nameless, And Undefined.

There Are Moments When I Cannot Bear This Unremitting Consciousness. It Knows Only Itself. Awake, I Am In A Continuum With My Dreams. I Feel My Typewriters, My Table, My Chair To Have That Assurance Of A Solid World, Where Things Take Up Space, Where Is Not The Endless Emptiness Of Insubstantial Thought That Leads To Nowhere But Itself. My Memories Pale As I Prevail Upon Them Again And Again. They Become More And More Ghostly. I Fear Nothing So Much As Losing Them Altogether And Having Only My Blank Endless Mind To Live In.

Facts Are The Images Of History, Just As Images Are The Facts Of Fiction.

I Worry About Images. Images Are What Things Mean.