Nothing Is Ever Behind Us.

When You Die Of Sorrow It's As If You've Broken All The Bones In Your Body, Bruised Yourself All Over, Cracked Your Skull. That's Sorrow.

The American Mirror, Said The Voice, The Sad American Mirror Of Wealth And Poverty And Constant Useless Metamorphosis, The Mirror That Sails And Whose Sails Are Pain.

Of What Is Lost, Irretrievably Lost, All I Wish To Recover Is The Daily Availability Of My Writing, Lines Capable Of Grasping Me By The Hair And Lifting Me Up When I'm At The End Of My Strength. (significant, Said The Foreigner.) Odes To The Human And The Divine. Let My Writing Be Like The Verses Of By Leopardi That Daniel Biga Recited On A Nordic Bridge To Gird Himself With Courage.

The World Is Alive And No Living Thing Has Any Remedy. That Is Our Fortune.

As Time Goes By, As Time Goes By, The Whip-crack Of The Years, The Precipice Of Illusions, The Ravine That Swallows Up All Human Endeavour Except The Struggle To Survive.