Writing Is Like Paying Myself A Formal

Isn't Joyful Or Painful This Pain In Which I Rejoice

My Soul's The Present Shadow Of A Presence Gone.

I Know, I Alone I Know, I Alone How Much It Hurts, This Heart With No Faith Nor Law Nor Melody Nor Thought. Only I, Only I And None Of This Can I Say Because Feeling Is Like The Sky - Seen, Nothing In It To See.

The Unnatural And The Strange Have A Perfume Of Their Own

But Do We Really Live? To Live Without Knowing What Life Is - Is That Living?