Where Ever I Am Not

I Love The Clouds... The Clouds That Pass By... Over There... Over There... Those Lovely Clouds!

You Walk On Corpses, Beauty, Undismayed.

Dancing Is Poetry With Arms And Legs.

Multitude, Solitude: Equal And Interchangeable Terms For The Active And Prolific Poet.

Ascend Beyond The Sickly Atmosphere To A Higher Plane, And Purify Yourself By Drinking As If It Were Ambrosia The Fire That Fills And Fuels Emptiness. Free From The Futile Strivings And The Cares Which Dim Existence To A Realm Of Mist, Happy Is He Who Wings An Upward Way On Mighty Pinions To The Fields Of Light; Whose Thoughts Like Larks Spontaneously Rise Into The Morning Sky; Whose Flight, Unchecked, Outreaches Life And Readily Comprehends The Language Of Flowers And Of All Mute Things.