This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

True love. Is it normal is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own?

Four billion people on this earthbut my imagination is still the same.It's bad with large numbers.It's still taken by particularity.It flits in the dark like a flashlight,illuminating only random faceswhile all the rest go by,never coming to mind and never really missed.

There's nothing more debauched than thinking.This sort of wantonness runs wild like a wind-borne weedon a plot laid out for daisies.Nothing's sacred for those who think.Calling things brazenly by name,risque analyses, salacious syntheses,frenzied, rakish chases after the bare facts,the filthy fingering of touchy subjects,discussion in heat--it's music to their ears.

The world would rather see hope than just hear its song. And that's why statesman have to smile. Their pearly whites mean they're still full of cheer. The game's complex, the goal's far out of reach, the outcome's still unclear--once in a while,we need a friendly, gleaming set of teeth.

When it comes, you’ll be dreamingthat you don’t need to breathe;that breathless silence isthe music of the darkand it’s part of the rhythmto vanish like a spark.

We treat each other with exceeding courtesy;we says, it’s great to see you after all these years.Our tigers drink milk.Our hawks tread the ground.Our sharks have all drowned.Our wolves yawn beyond the open cage.Our snakes have shed their lightning,our apes their flights of fancy,our peacocks have renounced their plumes.The bats flew out of our hair long ago.We fall silent in mid-sentence,all smiles, past help.Our humansdon’t know how to talk to one another.

Not faith in the beyond, but only doubt can make you, sorry soul, a bit less wretched.

My identifying features are rapture and despair.