I Think It Is Vanity To Want

But What Is Memory If Not The Language Of Feeling, A Dictionary Of Faces And Days And Smells Which Repeat Themselves Like The Verbs And Adjectives In A Speech, Sneaking In Behind The Thing Itself,into The Pure Present, Making Us Sad Or Teaching Us Vicariously.

Where Are The Beginnings, The Endings, And Most Important, The Middles?

Happy Was She Who Could Believe Without Seeing, Who Was At One With The Duration And Continuity Of Life.

Salt And The Center Of The World Have To Be There, In That Spot On The Tablecloth.

I Think We All Have A Little Bit Of That Beautiful Madness That Keeps Us Walking When Everything Around Us Is So Insanely Sane.