The Darkness Has It's Own Light.

And I Rejoiced In Being What I Was.

I Always Felt Mean, Jogging Back Over The Logging Road,as If I Had Broken The Natural Order Of Things In That Swampland;disturbed Some Rhythm, Old And Of Vast Importance,by Pulling Off Flesh From The Living Planet;as If I Had Committed, Against The Whole Scheme Of Life, A Desecration.

Nothing Would Give Up Life: Even The Dirt Keeps Breathing A Small Breath.

What's Important? That Which Is Dug Out Of Books, Or Out Of The Guts?

I Wish I Could Find An Event That Meant As Much As Simple Seeing.