I Know I Am Making The Choice

The Goal Is The Same: Life Itself; And The Price Is The Same; Life Itself.

The Mere Attempt To Examine My Own Confusion Would Consume Volumes.

It Is The Middle And Pure Height And Whole Of Summer And A Summer Night, The Held Breath, Of A Planet's Year; High Shored Sleeps The Crested Tide: What Day Of The Month I Do Not Know, Which Day Of The Week I Am Not Sure, Far Less What Hour Of The Night.

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

He Used This Great, Sad, Motionless Face To Suggest Various Related Things: A One-track Mind Near The Track's End Of Pure Insanity; Mulish Imperturbability Under The Wildest Of Circumstances; How Dead A Human Being Can Get And Still Be Alive . . .