I Think More And More

One Could Say The Higher The Spirit Goes, The More Deeply The Soul Sinks Down Into The Waters Of Melancholy And Tragedy. Drowning In That Water Is As Sweet As Rising.

You Say To Yourself, Well, This Poem Isn't Going To Be Any Good, But I'll Write It Anyway.

The Dead Made This World. We Didn't Make It. They Made The Poetry And The Songs And The Customs.

Siblings Tend Not To Care Much About Boundaries And Borders. Having Worn Each Others' T-shirts, It's Unlikely That They'd Go To War Over A Border.

The Beginning Of Love Is A Horror Of Emptiness.