He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out

Prose, Narratives, Etcetera, Can Carry Healing. Poetry Does It More Intensely.

The Shell The Sea Fills My Ear With Sand And With Fear. You May Wash Out The Sand, But Never The Sound Of The Ghost Of The Sea That Is Haunting Me.

And The Elephant Sings Deep In The Forest-maze About A Star Of Deathless And Painless Peace But No Astronomer Can Find Where It Is.

...imagine What You Are Writing About. See It And Live It. Do Not Think It Up Laboriously, As If You Were Working Out Mental Arithmetic. Just Look At It, Touch It, Smell It, Listen To It, Turn Yourself Into It. When You Do This, The Words Look After Themselves, Like Magic.

The Real Mystery Is This Strange Need. Why Can't We Just Hide It And Shut Up? Why Do We Have To Blab? Why Do Human Beings Need To Confess?