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

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better.

We should have thought of it when the world was young, in the nineties.

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.

The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.

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

Poetry is essentially the antithesis of Metaphysics: Metaphysics purge the mind of the senses and cultivate the disembodiment of the spiritual; Poetry is all passionate and feeling and animates the inanimate; Metaphysics are most perfect when concerned with universals; Poetry, when most concerned with particulars.