My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.
Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.
The ruminations are mine, let the world be yours.
Here then – the after math of meaning. A liftime finished between the space of two frames.
I will walk heavy, and I will walk strange.
Heart may still be the fire in hearth but I’m suddenly too cold to continue, and besides, there’s no hearth here anyway and it’s the end of June. Thursday. Almost noon. And all the buttons on my corduroy coat are gone. I don’t know why. I’m sorry Hailey. I don’t know what to do.
Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.
What miracle is this? This giant tree. It stands ten thousand feet high But doesn’t reach the ground. Still it stands. Its roots must hold the sky.
It is hungry, it it immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.
Why did god create a dual universe? So he might say ‘Be not like me. I am alone.’ And it might be heard.
No one ever really gets used to nightmares.
One forgets that one is one. I must try to remember this.
I must read. I must read. I must read.
I think that’s what finally stopped me. I slid right to the edge. My legs were hanging over. And I could feel it too. I don’t know how. There was no wind, no sound, no change of temperature. There was just this terrible emptiness reaching up for me.
And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.
I took my morning walk, I took my evening walk, I ate something, I thought about something, I wrote, I napped and dreamt something too, and with all that something, I still have nothing because so much of sum’thing has always been and always will be you.
Beautiful women are always drawn to men they think will keep them beautiful.
Knowledge is hot water on wool. It shrinks time and space.
Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.
Keep true to the rare music in your heart, to the marvelous and unique form that is and shall always be nothing else but you. Keep to that and you can do no wrong, which I realize is easier said than done.
Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.