Thought Itself Needs Words. It Runs On

There Is Always A Certain Peace In Being What One Is, In Being That Completely.

If We Have Anything Kind To Say, Any Tender Sentiment To Express, We Feel A Sense Of Shame.

At Any Given Moment, I Open My Eyes And Exist.

We Play Make Believe, Pretend To Take Ourselves And Each Other Seriously--to Love Each Other, Hate Each Other--but Then--it Isn't True. It Isn't True, We Don't Care At All!

Thought Itself Needs Words. It Runs On Them Like A Long Wire. And If It Loses The Habit Of Words, Little By Little It Becomes Shapeless, Somber.