Poetry Is As Precise A Thing As

Maybe Happiness Too Is A Metaphor Invented On A Day Of Boredom

I Go Dreaming Into The Future, Where I See Nothing, Nothing. I Have No Plans, No Idea, No Project, And, What Is Worse, No Ambition. Something – The Eternal ‘what’s The Use?’ – Sets Its Bronze Barrier Across Every Avenue That I Open Up In The Realm Of Hypothesis.

What An Awful Thing Life Is, Isn’t It? It’s Like Soup With Lots Of Hairs Floating On The Surface. You Have To Eat It Nevertheless.

Travel Makes One Modest. You See What A Tiny Place You Occupy In The World.

It Seems To Me That I Have Always Existed And That I Possess Memories That Date Back To The Pharaohs.