The beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots.

Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!

Everyone in this life is defeated but a man, if he be a man, is not defeated.

It's a strange courage you give me ancient star: Shine alone in the sunrise toward which you lend no part!

For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.