Nothing matters but the writing. There has been nothing else worthwhile... a stain upon the silence.

What are we doing here, that is the question. And we are blessed in this, that we happen to know the answer. Yes, in the immense confusion one thing alone is clear. We are waiting for Godot to come

To what will love not stoop!

The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of.

All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.

Mysterious affair, electricity.

To him who has nothing it is forbidden not to relish filth.