our can'ts were born to happen our mosts have died in more

(and from my thighs which shrug and pant a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she carries in a gesture of her hips)

The symbol of all art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism, into the secret glories which it contains.

Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are by somebody who can love and who shall be continually reborn, a human being.

Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.

since the thing perhaps is to eat flowers and not to be afraid

All in green went my love riding