Reading is a pleasure, but to finish reading, to come to the blank space at the end, is also a pleasure.

In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.

Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.

And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.

Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking.

The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.

Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.