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feast, believe me is not death and is not glory and like Quixote’s windmills makes a foe turned by the heavens against one man; . . . this thing upon me, great god, this thing upon me crawling like a snake, terrifying my love of commonness, some
call Art some call poetry; it’s not death but dying will solve its power
I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead.
the tigers have found me and I do not care.
the best days are sometimes the first, sometimes the middle and even sometimes the last.
some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must live.
it has been a beautiful fight still is.
and there will be the most beautiful silence never heard born out of that. the sun still hidden there awaiting the next chapter.
your life is your life. know it while you have it. you are marvelous the gods wait to delight in you.
