He Was Trying To Fit This Herakles

We're Talking About The Struggle To Drag A Thought Over From The Mush Of The Unconscious Into Some Kind Of Grammar, Syntax, Human Sense; Every Attempt Means Starting Over With Language. Starting Over With Accuracy.

What Would It Be Like To Live In A Library Of Melted Books. With Sentences Streaming Over The Floor And All The Punctuation Settled To The Bottom As A Residue. It Would Be Confusing. Unforgivable. A Great Adventure.

We Are Only Midway Through The Central Verse Of Our Youth When We See Ourselves Begin To Blacken. ... We Had Been Seduced Into Thinking That We Were Immortal And Suddenly The Affair Is Over.

To Be Running Breathlessly, But Not Yet Arrived, Is Itself Delightful, A Suspended Moment Of Living Hope.

No One Will Ever Make Necessity Not Happen.