Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.

As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.

Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming.

The truth is we never stop being children, terrible children covered in sores and knotty veins and tumors and age spots, but ultimately children, in other words we never stop clinging to life because we are life.

They could read him, they could study him, they could pick him apart, but they couldn't laugh or be sad with him.

Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.

We never stop reading, although every book comes to an end, just as we never stop living, although death is certain.