Therefore Bivouac We On This Great, Blond

Death Is A New Office Building Filled With Modern Furniture, A Wise Thing, But Which Has No Purpose For Us.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.

If You Need A Certain Vitality You Can Only Supply It Yourself, Or There Comes A Point, Anyway, When No One's Actions But Your Own Seem Dramatically Convincing And Justifiable In The Plot That The Number Of Your Days Concocts.

This Whole Moment Is The Groin Of A Borborygmic Giant Who Even Now Is Rolling Over On Us In His Sleep.

Reading Is A Pleasure, But To Finish Reading, To Come To The Blank Space At The End, Is Also A Pleasure.