The white sun like a moth on a string circles the southpole.
Is it not careless to become too local when there are four hundred billion stars in our galaxy alone.
To be saved is here, local and mortal
A poem generated by its own laws may be unrealized and bad in terms of so-called objective principles of taste, judgement, deduction.
What destruction have I been blessed by?
There's something to be said in favor of working in isolation in the real world.