The Heroes Of The Present

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

All That Matters Is That The Thing Be The Thing Of The Thing.

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

An American Is A Complex Of Occasions, Themselves A Geometry Of Spatial Nature.

Were All Moving, Moving, Moving. Isnt It Nice?