The Personal Life Deeply Lived Always Expands

Talk—half-talk, Phrases That Had No Need To Be Finished, Abstractions, Chinese Bells Played On With Cotton-tipped Sticks, Mock Orange Blossoms Painted On Porcelain. The Muffled, Close, Half-talk Of Soft-fleshed Women. The Men She Had Embraced, And The Women, All Washing Against The Resonance Of My Memory. Sound Within Sound, Scene Within Scene, Woman Within Woman—like Acid Revealing An Invisible Script. One Woman Within Another Eternally, In A Far-reaching Procession, Shattering My Mind Into Fragments, Into Quarter Tones Which No Orchestral Baton Can Ever Make Whole Again.

We Are Going To The Moon That Is Not Very Far. Man Has So Much Farther To Go Within Himself.

It Is A Sign Of Great Inner Insecurity To Be Hostile To The Unfamiliar.

The Self Is Merely The Lens Through Which We See Others And The World.

My Life Is Slowed Up By Thought And The Need To Understand What I Am Living.