Poetry may make us from time to time a little more aware of the deeper, unnamed feelings which form the substratum of our being, to which we rarely penetrate; for our lives are mostly a constant evasion of ourselves.
T. S. Eliot
Sunday, May 16, 2010
I must go to sleep. My mind wakes me far too much. Too much soul. Too much heat. What good is restlessness? All will be where it will be. Control is something non existent, in our thoughts with far too much persistence.