They Import And They Consume Reality.

Does It Matter Whether You Hate Yourself? At Least Love Your Eyes That Can See, Your Mind That Can Hear The Music, The Thunder Of The Wings.

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

They Import And They Consume Reality.

Truly Men Hate The Truth; They'd Liefer Meet A Tiger On The Road.

That Public Men Publish Falsehoods Is Nothing New. That America Must Accept Like The Historical Republics Corruption And Empire Has Been Known For Years. Be Angry At The Sun For Setting If These Things Anger You.