We Agreed To Love Each

Writing At Least Is A Silent Meditation Even Though You’re Going A Hundred Miles An Hour.

It Seemed Like A Matter Of Minutes When We Began Rolling In The Foothills Before Oakland And Suddenly Reached A Height And Saw Stretched Out Ahead Of Us The Fabulous White City Of San Francisco On Her Eleven Mystic Hills With The Blue Pacific And Its Advancing Wall Of Potato-patch Fog Beyond, And Smoke And Goldenness In The Late Afternoon Of Time.

The Truth Of The Matter Is We Don't Understand Our Women; We Blame On Them And It's All Our Fault.

We Were All Delighted, We All Realized We Were Leaving Confusion And Nonsense Behind And Performing Our One And Noble Function Of The Time, Move.

And Still The Void Is Still And'll Never Move - But I Will Be The Void, Moving Without Having Moved.