What's lightly hid is deepest understood.
Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.
Teach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul.
What is our praise or pride but to imagine excellence and try to make it? What does it say over the door of heaven; but, homo (sapiens) fecit?
Odd that a thing is most itself when likened
Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.