Words Are All We Have.

The Day You Die Is Just Like Any Other, Only Shorter.

All Poetry, As Discriminated From The Various Paradigms Of Prosody, Is Prayer.

To-morrow, When I Wake, Or Think I Do, What Shall I Say Of To-day?

The Fact Is, It Seems, That The Most You Can Hope Is To Be A Little Less, In The End, The Creature You Were In The Beginning, And The Middle.

...and A Dream Away In Space With Neither Her Nor There Where All The Footsteps Ever Fell Can Never Fare Nearer To Anywhere Nor From Anywhere Further Away. Nor For In The End Again By Degrees Or As Though Switched On Dark Falls There Again That Certain Dark That Alone Certain Ashes Can. Through It Who Knows Yet Another End Beneath A Cloudless Sky Of A Last End If Ever There Had To Be Another Absolutely Had To Be.