Sometimes A Journey Makes Itself Necessary.

A Man Moves Through Time. It Means Nothing Except That, Like A Harpoon, Once Thrown He Will Arrive.

Existence Will Not Stop Until It Gets To Beauty.

Small, Red, And Upright He Waited, Gripping His New Bookbag Tight In One Hand And Touching A Lucky Penny Inside His Coat Pocket With The Other, While The First Snows Of Winter Floated Down On His Eyelashes And Covered The Branches Around Him And Silenced All Trace Of The World.

Each Night About This Time He Puts On Sadness Like A Garment And Goes On Writing.

We're Talking About The Struggle To Drag A Thought Over From The Mush Of The Unconscious Into Some Kind Of Grammar, Syntax, Human Sense; Every Attempt Means Starting Over With Language. Starting Over With Accuracy.