All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
Dying for dark — and the darker the Worse. Strange.
For in me there have always been two fools, among others, one asking nothing better than to stay where he is and the other imagining that life might be slightly less horrible a little further on.
Light black. From pole to pole.
There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
In the landscape of extinction, precision is next to godliness.