When he tells us about his Father, we distrust him. When he shows us his Home, we turn away, but when he confides to us that he is acquainted with grief, we listen, for that also is an acquaintance of our own.

These are the days when birds come back, a very few, a Bird or two, to take a backward look.

We dream — it is good we are dreaming — It would hurt us — were we awake — But since it is playing — kill us, And we are playing — shriek — What harm? Men die — externally — It is a truth — of Blood — But we — are dying in Drama — And Drama — is never dead — Cautious — We jar each other — And either — open the eyes — Lest the Phantasm — prove the Mistake — And the livid Surprise Cool us to Shafts of Granite — With just an Age — and Name — And perhaps a phrase in Egyptian — It's prudenter — to dream —

Assent - and you are sane - Demur - and you're straightaway dangerous - and handled with a chain.

Opinion is a fitting thing but truth outlasts the sun - if then we cannot own them both, possess the oldest one.

Pain has an element of blank

My business is circumference.