There Is No Denying That

We Travel, Some Of Us Forever, To Seek Other States, Other Lives, Other Souls.

They Courted The Face On The Screen, The Face Of Translucence, The Face Of Wax On Which Men Found It Possible To Imprint The Image Of Their Fantasy.

A Trite Word Is An Overused Word Which Has Lost Its Identity Like An Old Coat In A Second-hand Shop. The Familiar Grows Dull And We No Longer See, Hear, Or Taste It.

I Write Emotional Algebra.

The Personal, If It Is Deep Enough, Becomes Universal, Mythical, Symbolic.