God is love. Yes or no? No.

Abode where lost bodies roam each searching for its lost one.

Hardly had the glow been kindled by some good deed on your part or by some little triumph over your rivals or by a word of praisefrom your parents or mentors when it would begin to cool and fade leaving you in a very short time as chill and dim as before.

Finished, it's finished, nearly finished, it must be nearly finished. Grain upon grain, one by one, and one day, suddenly, there's a heap, a little heap, the impossible heap. I can't be punished any more. I'll go now to my kitchen, ten feet by ten feet by ten feet, and wait for him to whistle me. Nice dimensions, nice proportions, I'll lean on the table, and look at the wall, and wait for him to whistle me.

I shall state silences more competently than ever a better man spangled the butterflies of vertigo.

Poets are the sense, philosophers­­ the intelligence­­ of humanity.

To find a form that accommodates the shape of the mess, that is the task of the artist now.