Just Spunk Won't Be Enough; You've Got

How Far We All Come. How Far We All Come Away From Ourselves. So Far, So Much Between, You Can Never Go Home Again. You Can Go Home, It's Good To Go Home, But You Never Really Get All The Way Home Again In Your Life. ... Whatever It Was And However Good It Was, It Wasn't What You Once Had Been, And Had Lost, And Could Never Have Again, And Once In A While, Once In A Long Time, You Remembered, And Knew How Far You Were Away, And It Hit You Hard Enough, That Little While It Lasted, To Break Your Heart.

You've Got To Bear It In Mind That Nobody That Ever Lived Is Specially Privileged; The Axe Can Fall At Any Moment, On Any Neck, Without Any Warning Or Any Regard For Justice.

As A Whole Part Of "psychological Education" It Needs To Be Remembered That A Neurosis Can Be Valuable; Also That "adjustment" To A Sick And Insane Environment Is Of Itself Not "health" But Sickness And Insanity.

This Continent, An Open Palm Spread Frank Before The Sky.

One Thing I Feel Is This: That A Great Deal Of Poetry Is The Product Of Adolescence-or Of An Emotionally Adolescent Frame Of Mind: And That As This State Of Mind Changes, Poetry Is Likely To Dry Up.