I Am Alone; All Drowns

Poetry Is A Rich, Full-bodied Whistle, Cracked Ice Crunching In Pails, The Night That Numbs The Leaf, The Duel Of Two Nightingales, The Sweet Pea That Has Run Wild, Creation's Tears In Shoulder Blades.

He Realised, More Vividly Than Ever Before, That Art Had Two Constant, Two Unending Preoccupations: It Is Always Meditating Upon Death And It Is Always Thereby Creating Life.

I Love You Wildly, Insanely, Infinitely.

About Dreams. It Is Usually Taken For Granted That You Dream Of Something That Has Made A Particularly Strong Impression On You During The Day, But It Seems To Me It´s Just The Contrary. Often It´s Something You Paid No Attention To At The Time -- A Vague Thought That You Didn´t Bother To Think Out To The End, Words Spoken Without Feeling And Which Passed Unnoticed -- These Are The Things That Return At Night, Clothed In Flesh And Blood, And They Become The Subjects Of Dreams, As If To Make Up For Having Been Ignored During Waking Hours.

When A Great Moment Knocks On The Door Of Your Life, It Is Often No Louder Than The Beating Of Your Heart, And It Is Very Easy To Miss It.