To You Who Have Never

A Man Kills The Thing He Loves, And He Must Die A Little Himself.

In This Sense Love Is Of A Different Order To Any Other Phenomenon, For It May Be Both An Event And A Sign Of That Invisible Mechanism I Spoke Of Before; Perhaps The Finest Sign, The Most Certain. In It’s Throes We Need Neither Luck Nor Science. We Are The Wheel, And The Man Who Profits By It. We Are The Star, And The Darkness It Pierces. We Are The Butterfly, Brief And Beautiful.

It’s Only When You’ve Lost Someone That You Realize The Nonsense Of That Phrase “it’s A Small World”. It Isn’t. It’s A Vast, Devouring World, Especially If You’re Alone.

His Body And His Mind Went About Their Different Businesses. The Former, Freed From Conscious Instruction, Breathed, Rolled, Sweated, And Digested. The Latter Went Dreaming.

O Little One, My Little One, Come With Me, Your Life Is Done. Forget The Future, Forget The Past. Life Is Over: Breathe Your Last.