Lose Something Every Day. Accept The Fluster

Dreams Were The Worst. Of Course I Dreamed Of Food And Love, But They Were Pleasant Rather Than Otherwise. But Then I'd Dream Of Things Like Slitting A Baby's Throat, Mistaking It For A Baby Goat. I'd Have Nightmares Of Other Islands Stretching Away From Mine, Infinities Of Islands, Islands Spawning Islands, Like Frogs' Eggs Turning Into Polliwogs Of Islands, Knowing That I Had To Live On Each And Every One, Eventually, For Ages, Registering Their Flora, Their Fauna, Their Geography.

There Are Some People Whom We Envy Not Because They Are Rich Or Handsome Or Successful, Although They May Be All Or Any Of These, But Because Everything They Are Or Do Seems To Be All Of A Piece, So That Even If They Wanted To They Could Not Be Or Do Otherwise.

Icebergs Behoove The Soul (both Being Self-made From Elements Least Visible) To See Themselves: Fleshed, Fair, Erected, Indivisible.

The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master; So Many Things Seem Filled With The Intent To Be Lost That Their Loss Is No Disaster.

Oh, Must We Dream Our Dreams And Have Them, Too?