And I Sit Here Without Identity: Faceless.

The Man Creates A Pseudonym And Hides Behind It Like A Worm

But Life Is Long. And It Is The Long Run That Balances The Short Flare Of Interest And Passion.

But Writing Poems And Letters Doesn't Seem To Do Much Good.

I Dream Too Much, Work Too Little.

The Night Sky Is Only A Sort Of Carbon Paper, Blueblack, With The Much-poked Periods Of Stars Letting In The Light, Peephole After Peephole--- A Bonewhite Light, Like Death, Behind All Things.