Words today are like the shells and rope of seaweed which a child brings home glistening from the beach and which in an hour have lost their luster.
We are all serving a life sentence in the dungeon of the self.
We love but once, for once only are we perfectly equipped for loving.
Like water, we are truest to our nature in repose.
When I write after dark the shades of evening scatter their purple through my prose.
Approaching forty, I had a singular dream in which I almost grasped the meaning and understood the nature of what it is that wastes in wasted time.