Were All Moving, Moving, Moving. Isnt It

Knowledge Is The Harvest Of Attention

I'm Trying To Climb Up Both Walls At Once.

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

I Have Had To Learn The Simplest Things Last. Which Made For Difficulties.

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.