That's what hell must be like, small chat to the babbling of Lethe about the good old days when we wished we were dead.

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

Sometimes I wonder if I'm in my right mind. Then it passes off and I'm as intelligent as ever.

...and a dream away in space with neither her nor there where all the footsteps ever fell can never fare nearer to anywhere nor from anywhere further away. Nor for in the end again by degrees or as though switched on dark falls there again that certain dark that alone certain ashes can. Through it who knows yet another end beneath a cloudless sky of a last end if ever there had to be another absolutely had to be.

I have my faults, but changing my tune is not one of them.

That double-headed monster of damnation and salvation--Time.

I pause to record that I feel in extraordinary form. Delirium perhaps.