Because sometimes stories end, but old stories go on, and you gotta dance if you want to stay ahead.
There will be an enormous explosion that no one will hear, and the earth, once again a nebula, will wander through the heavens, freed of parasites and sickness.
Why is it that the most unoriginal thing we can say to one another is still the thing we long to hear? ‘I love you’ is always a quotation.
I am invisible, understand, simply because people refuse to see me. Like the bodiless heads you see sometimes in circus sideshows, it is as though I have been surrounded by mirrors of hard, distorting glass. When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves or figments of their imagination, indeed, everything and anything except me.
I hear a bird being its song,
piercing the hour, to bring first light this Christmas dawn,
a gift, the blush of memory.
There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense.
I would know that in any city, at an hour like this, there are people sleeping. That most people are sleeping. But that in any city, in any cluster of people, there a few people who are awake at this hour, who are both awake and dancing, and it’s here that we need to be. That if we are living as we were this week, that we had to be awake with the people who are still dancing.
Somewhere sometime we must have
passed one another like going and coming trains,
with both of us looking the other way.
And then a big wind came and set everything free.
Call me tomorrow’s inevitable sunrise.
Run my dear,
from anything that may not strengthen your precious budding wings.
Run like hell my dear,
from anyone likely to put a sharp knife Into the sacred,
tender vision of your beautiful heart.
I simply state that I’m a product of a versatile mind in a restless generation—with every reason to throw my mind and pen in with the radicals. Even if, deep in my heart, I thought we were all blind atoms in a world as limited as a stroke of a pendulum, I and my sort would struggle against tradition; try, at least, to displace old can’ts with new ones.
As they say—‘Time is a great Healer.’