Sunday, November 8, 2015


I am taking a vacation until tomorrow, because
I don't know what else to do.  Having run out of 
words and intentions, I seek to step back, inhabit 
the distance, and take the moment I've waited for. 
The lethal fragment of effort and attempt is over. 
I will sit at the counter forever, just to
watch what I am watching.
The scribe is a nasty nurse. He takes his paper 
and pen with him, through all the ages. We have 
seen him in every guise. Pound and Rilke, Dante
and Chaucer, Sartre and Gide. Whatever is your 
combination, it has already happened. You 
should arise early to know so little. Mankind's
workings are never lost.
There is, in the shadows, a dark kind of optimism
to all that  we do : Post-pessimism. Pre-Paradise.
Perhaps it's all the same. To laugh, one must be
ready to cry. To die, one must first have lived.
Bread that is baked on its own bottom is best.

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