In The End, There Is No End.

Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O Wind Blow Cold, O Wind Blow Hot

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

In The End, There Is No End.

Middle Age At Forty-five, What Next, What Next? At Every Corner, I Meet My Father, My Age, Still Alive.