Let Cloud Shapes Swarm, / Let Chaos

The Truth Is The River Flows Into The Canyon Of Ceasing-to-question-what-doesn't-concern-us, As Sooner Or Later We Have To Cease Somewhere.

'warm In December, Cold In June, You Say?' I Don't Suppose The Water's Changed At All. You And I Know Enough To Know It's Warm Compared With Cold, And Cold Compared With Warm. But All The Fun's In How You Say A Thing.

Yet Some Say Love By Being Thrall And Simply Staying Possesses All In Several Beauty That Thought Fares Far To Find Fused In Another Star.

The Chance Is The Remotest, Of Its Going Much Longer Unnoticed, That I'm Not Keeping Pace With The Headlong Human Race

I Have Remained Resentful To This Day When Any But Myself Presumed To Say That There Was Anything I Couldn't Be.