It Was My Destiny To Love And

Death Is The Stone Into Which Our Oblivion Hardens.

I Like On The Table, When We're Speaking, The Light Of A Bottle Of Intelligent Wine.

I Should Like To Sleep Like A Cat, With All The Fur Of Time, With A Tongue Rough As Flint, With The Dry Sex Of Fire; And After Speaking To No One, Stretch Myself Over The World, Over Roofs And Landscapes, With A Passionate Desire To Hunt The Rats In My Dreams.

White Bee, Even When You Are Gone You Buzz In My Soul You Live Again In Time, Slender And Silent.

I'm Not Me But Living Matter Fermenting And Forming Its Own Shapes In The Fruitfulness Of Every Day.