End With An Image And

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

You Must Be Careful Not To Deprive The Poem Of Its Wild Origin.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.