And I Sit Here Without

The Thought That I Might Kill Myself Formed In My Mind Coolly As A Tree Or A Flower.

This Is The Light Of The Mind, Cold And Planetary. The Trees Of The Mind Are Black. The Light Is Blue.

And I, Stepping From This Skin Of Old Bandages, Boredoms, Old Faces Step To You From The Black Car Of Lethe, Pure As A Baby.

What Is My Life For And What Am I Going To Do With It? I Don't Know And I'm Afraid.

The Hardest Thing, I Think, Is To Live Richly In The Present, Without Letting It Be Tainted & Spoiled Out Of Fear For The Future Or Regret For A Badly-managed Past.