Where is the coin that doesn't fit the ruse?
Shall it be given to those with none?
Recluses are in joint gatherings to stumble upon an unknown truth.
There is a way to walk away, to get to the other side, leaving yourself behind.
In my feelings a deeper thought awakens a blue sky of sapphire and forgotten dreams.
I hope at least one other person gets something from what I write.
Hoping what I say makes some sort of sense.
Extremely vivid dying dreams, I hope to God I can see what it means.
We are surrounded by poetry on all sides, but putting it on paper is, alas,
not as readily done as looking at it.

The springs of Autumn give way to the wings of Winter.

Let us go forward quietly each on his own path,
forever making for the light,
and in the knowledge that we are as others are and that others are as we are
and that it is right to love one another in the best possible way,
believing all things , hoping for all things and enduring all things,
and never failing. And not being too troubled by our weaknesses,
for even he who has none, has one weakness, namely that he has none,
and anyone who believes himself to be consummately wise would do well to be foolish all over again.

In my mind, reality doesn't follow a strait narative.
I get lost sometimes. Spychogenic fugue.
My mind is like a dog, it obeys me sometimes
and others, it get out of the fence and misbehaves.

What can a man alane do?
What can he say? But company costs.
Not dollars nor cents. But recompense.
The cost is oftain high and makes nai sense.
If you think I've made errors it's Scots not that I'm dense.

I feel like an empty writer.
The writing dead. A freak.
Nothing but the migrations of the human soul tonight.

Be what you would seem to be-
or, if you'd like it put more simply-
never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than
what it might appear to others that what you
were or might have been was not
otherwise than what you had been,
would have appeared to them
to be otherwise.

O Sleep, O gentle sleep,
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weight my eyelids down
And steep my senses on forgetfulness?...
O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell?...
Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose?

Yes, space was yielding its whole mental padding
in which no thought was yet clear
or had replentished its load of objects.
But little by little the mass turned,
like a slimy and powerful nausea,
a sort of vast influx of blood,
vegetable and thundering.
The very darkness became profuse and
without object.
The total frost gained clarity.