Words and images run riot in my head, pursuing, flying, clashing, merging, endlessly. But beyond this tumult there is a great calm, and a great indifference, never really to be troubled by anything again.
God is love. Yes or no? No.
The sun shone, having no alternative, on the nothing new.
To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
I could not have gone through the awful wretched mess of life without having left a stain upon the silence.