The Universe Is A Continuous

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

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.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

The Unconscious Creates, The Ego Edits.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?