Even When One Sits In The Prisoner's

Outside Of That Single Fatality Of Death, Everything, Joy Or Happiness, Is Liberty.

She Was Waiting, But She Didn't Know For What. She Was Aware Only Of Her Solitude, And Of The Penetrating Cold, And Of A Greater Weight In The Region Of Her Heart.

Sometimes, Carrying On, Just Carrying On, Is The Superhuman Achievement.

The Poor Man Whom Everyone Speaks Of, The Poor Man Whom Everyone Pities, One Of The Repulsive Poor From Whom Charitable Souls Keep Their Distance, He Has Still Said Nothing. Or, Rather, He Has Spoken Through The Voice Of Victor Hugo, Zola, Richepin. At Least, They Said So. And These Shameful Impostures Fed Their Authors. Cruel Irony, The Poor Man Tormented With Hunger Feeds Those Who Plead His Case.

Absurd- That Is The Light Mind That Establishes Its Own Borders.