I Am Often Asked Why I Write,

It Is Written In The Book Of Usable Minutes That All Things Have Their Center In Their Dying.

I Like Poems You Can Tack All Over With A Hammer And There Are No Hollow Places.

I Tried Each Thing, Only Some Were Immortal And Free.

If You Need A Certain Vitality You Can Only Supply It Yourself, Or There Comes A Point, Anyway, When No One's Actions But Your Own Seem Dramatically Convincing And Justifiable In The Plot That The Number Of Your Days Concocts.

Alone With Our Madness And Favorite Flower We See That There Really Is Nothing Left To Write About. Or Rather, It Is Necessary To Write About The Same Old Things In The Same Way, Repeating The Same Things Over And Over For Love To Continue And Be Gradually Different.