The Poetic Notion Of Infinity

The Formula For Prison Is A Lack Of Space Counterbalanced By A Surplus Of Time. This Is What Really Bothers You, That You Can't Win. Prison Is Lack Of Alternatives, And The Telescopic Predictability Of The Future Is What Drives You Crazy.

As Failures Go, Attempting To Recall The Past Is Like Trying To Grasp The Meaning Of Existence. Both Make One Feel Like A Baby Clutching At A Basketball: One's Palms Keep Sliding Off.

The Poetic Notion Of Infinity Is Far Greater Than That Which Is Sponsored By Any Creed.

Because Every Book Of Art, Be It A Poem Or A Cupola, Is Understandably A Self-portrait Of Its Author, We Won't Strain Ourselves Too Hard Trying To Distinguish Between The Author's Persona And The Poem's Lyrical Hero. As A Rule, Such Distinctions Are Quite Meaningless, If Only Because A Lyrical Hero Is Invariably An Author's Self-projection.

I'm Not Trying To Be Ridiculous Or Funny, But It Was Rather Pleasant To Find Yourself In Isolation, In Solitary.