We Do Not Free Ourselves

Dawn's Faint Breath Breathes With Your Mouth At The Ends Of Empty Streets. Gray Light Your Eyes, Sweet Drops Of Dawn On Dark Hills. Your Steps And Breath Like The Wind Of Dawn Smother Houses. The City Shudders, Stones Exhale— You Are Life, An Awakening. Star Lost In The Light Of Dawn, Trill Of The Breeze, Warmth, Breath— The Night Is Done. You Are Light And Morning.

When You Dream, You Are An Author, But You Do Not Know How It Will End.

Waiting Is Still An Occupation. It Is Having Nothing To Wait For That Is Terrible.

The Real Affliction Of Old Age Is Remorse.

Writing Is A Fine Thing, Because It Combines The Two Pleasures Of Talking To Yourself And Talking To A Crowd.