A Book Should Serve As

Slept, Awoke, Slept, Awoke, Miserable Life.

My Doubts Stand In A Circle Around Every Word, I See Them Before I See The Word, But What Then! I Do Not See The Word At All, I Invent It.

What Am I Doing Here In This Endless Winter?

In A Certain Sense The Good Is Comfortless.

Written Kisses Never Arrive At Their Destination; The Ghosts Drink Them Up Along The Way.