At Sixty-three Years Of Age,

I Did Not Look For Her, Because I Was Afraid Of Dispelling The Mystery We Attach To People Whom We Know Only Casually.

One Keeps Forgetting Old Age Up To The Very Brink Of The Grave.

Perhaps The Only Misplaced Curiosity Is That Which Persists In Trying To Find Out Here, On This Side Of Death, What Lies Beyond The Grave.

By Means Of An Image We Are Often Able To Hold On To Our Lost Belongings. But It Is The Desperateness Of Losing Which Picks The Flowers Of Memory, Binds The Bouquet.

The Lovesick, The Betrayed, And The Jealous All Smell Alike.