Death Is The Only Real

Nothing Annoys Me More Than Having The Most Trivial Action Analyzed And Explained.

I Take A Sun Bath And Listen To The Hours, Formulating, And Disintegrating Under The Pines, And Smell The Resiny Hardihood Of The High Noon Hours. The World Is Lost In A Blue Haze Of Distances, And The Immediate Sleeps In A Thin And Finite Sun.

I Don’t Suppose I Really Know You Very Well - But I Know You Smell Like The Delicious Damp Grass That Grows Near Old Walls And That Your Hands Are Beautiful Opening Out Of Your Sleeves And That The Back Of Your Head Is A Mossy Sheltered Cave When There Is Trouble In The Wind And That My Cheek Just Fits The Depression In Your Shoulder.

I Don't Want To Live. I Want To Love First, And Live Incidentally.

It's Terrible To Allow Conventional Habits To Gain A Hold On A Whole Household; To Eat, Sleep And Live By Clock Ticks.