I Wrote Silences; Nights; I Recorded The

What A Life! True Life Is Elsewhere. We Are Not In The World.

...i Is Another. If The Brass Wakes The Trumpet, It’s Not Its Fault. That’s Obvious To Me: I Witness The Unfolding Of My Own Thought: I Watch It, I Hear It: I Make A Stroke With The Bow: The Symphony Begins In The Depths, Or Springs With A Bound Onto The Stage. If The Old Imbeciles Hadn’t Discovered Only The False Significance Of Self, We Wouldn’t Have To Now Sweep Away Those Millions Of Skeletons Which Have Been Piling Up The Products Of Their One-eyed Intellect Since Time Immemorial, And Claiming Themselves To Be Their Authors!

A Thousand Dreams Within Me Softly Burn: From Time To Time My Heart Is Like Some Oak Whose Blood Runs Golden Where A Branch Is Torn.

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

Yet This Is The Watch By Night. Let Us All Accept New Strength, And Real Tenderness. And At Dawn, Armed With Glowing Patience, We Will Enter The Cities Of Glory.