What The Man-moth Fears Most He Must

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.

Topography Displays No Favorites; North's As Near As West. More Delicate Than The Historians' Are The Map-makers' Colors.

If After I Read A Poem The World Looks Like That Poem For 24 Hours Or So I'm Sure It's A Good One—and The Same Goes For Paintings.

Lose Something Every Day. Accept The Fluster Of Lost Door Keys, The Hour Badly Spent. The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master.

I Am Sorry For People Who Can't Write Letters. But I Suspect Also That You And I ... Love To Write Them Because It's Kind Of Like Working Without Really Doing It.