What Can We Do When

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

All That Matters Is That The Thing Be The Thing Of The Thing.

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

Love Is Form, And Cannot Be Without Important Substance

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.