I Am Not Even Alive Enough To

He Could Hardly Read Or Write But His Heart Spoke The Language Of The Good

Nothing Can Be Said: Nothing Sure, Nothing Probable, Nothing Honest. Better To Err Through Omission Than Through Commission: Better To Refrain From Steering The Fate Of Others, Since It Is Already So Difficult To Navigate One's Own.

This Cell Belongs To A Brain, And It Is My Brain, The Brain Of Me Who Is Writing; And The Cell In Question, And Within It The Atom In Question, Is In Charge Of My Writing, In A Gigantic Minuscule Game Which Nobody Has Yet Described. It Is That Which At This Instant, Issuing Out Of A Labyrinthine Tangle Of Yeses And Nos, Makes My Hand Run Along A Certain Path On The Paper, Mark It With These Volutes That Are Signs: A Double Snap, Up And Down, Between Two Levels Of Energy, Guides This Hand Of Mine To Impress On The Paper This Dot, Here, This One.

The Sea's Only Gifts Are Harsh Blows And, Occasionally, The Chance To Feel Strong.

I Am Not Even Alive Enough To Know How To Kill Myself