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Any fool can turn a blind eye but who knows what the ostrich sees in the sand.

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I am still alive then. That may come in useful.
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All poetry, as discriminated from the various paradigms of prosody, is prayer.
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Poets are the sense, philosophers the intelligence of humanity.
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To find a form that accommodates the mess, that is the task of the artist now.
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I use the words you taught me. If they don’t mean anything any more, teach me others. Or let me be silent.
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But what matter whether I was born or not, have lived or not, am dead or merely dying. I shall go on doing as I have always done, not knowing what it is I do, nor who I am, nor where I am, nor if I am.
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Born Death Live Myself
Dance first. Think later. It’s the natural order.
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The day you die is just like any other, only shorter.
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All life long, the same questions, the same answers.
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To restore silence is the role of objects.
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To every man his little cross. Till he dies. And is forgotten.
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Do we mean love, when we say love?
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Yes, there were times when I forgot not only who I was but that I was, forgot to be.
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With all this darkness round me I feel less alone.
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But I was not made for the great light that devours, a dim lamp was all I had been given, and patience without end, to shine it on the empty shadows.
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If I was dead, I wouldn’t know I was dead. That’s the only thing I have against death. I want to enjoy my death.
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Death Enjoyment Myself

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