The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
Exists no miracle mightier than this: to feel.
The mind is its own beautiful prisoner. Mind looked long at the sticky moon opening in dusk her new wings then decently hanged himself,one afternoon. The last thing he saw was you naked amid unnaked things.
And now you are and I am and we're a mystery which will never happen again.
An artist, a man, a failure, must proceed.
i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses