All Poetry, As Discriminated From The Various

Words Are All We Have.

Do We Mean Love, When We Say Love?

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

Reality, Whether Approached Imaginatively Or Empirically, Remains A Surface, Hermetic.

I Can't Go On. I'll Go On.