Is It Not The Play Of The

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

All That Matters Is That The Thing Be The Thing Of The Thing.

Is It Not The Play Of The Mind We Are After? Is It Not That That Shows A Mind Is There At All?

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below

Of Rhythm Is Image / Of Image Is Knowing / Of Knowing There Is / A Construct