All time is eternal, moving inexorably toward an end which we believe is a result of our actions, but over which our control is mere illusion.
No poet, no artist of any art, has his complete meaning alone.
O dark dark dark. They all go into the dark, The vacant interstellar spaces, the vacant into the vacant
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.
The definition of hell is a place where nothing connects with nothing.
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives.