Forever Is Comprised Of Nows.

The Heart Wants What It Wants - Or Else It Does Not Care

It Might Be Lonelier Without The Loneliness - I’m So Accustomed To My Fate - Perhaps The Other - Peace - Would Interrupt The Dark - And Crowd The Little Room - Too Scant - By Cubits - To Contain The Sacrament - Of Him - I Am Not Used To Hope - It Might Intrude Upon - Its Sweet Parade - Blaspheme The Place - Ordained To Suffering - It Might Be Easier To Fail - With Land In Sight - Than Gain - My Blue Peninsula - To Perish - Of Delight -

There Is A Solitude Of Space. A Solitude Of Sea. A Solitude Of Death, But These Societies Shall Be Compared With That Profounder Site-that Polar Privacy. A Soul Admitted To Itself--finite Infinity.

We Do Not Play On Graves— Because There Isn't Room— Besides—it Isn't Even—it Slants And People Come— And Put A Flower On It— And Hang Their Faces So— We're Fearing That Their Hearts Will Drop— And Crush Our Pretty Play— And So We Move As Far As Enemies—away— Just Looking Round To See How Far It Is—occasionally—

The Minister Today Preached About Death And Judgment, And What Would Become Of Those Who Behaved Improperly - And Somehow It Scared Me. He Preached Such An Awful Sermon I Didn't Think I Should Ever See You Again Until The Judgment Day. The Subject Of Perdition Seemed To Please Him Somehow.