knowledge is a polite word for not dead but buried imagination

and so it was not he who was like a clock but me.

man's real life is happy, chiefly because he is ever expecting it soon will be so

they all run together and never make sense but that's how we like it, and that's all we want: Something to cry for, and something to hunt

sealed in day skin and night skin and ice lids

yet it is in our idleness, in our dreams, that the submerged truth sometimes comes to the top

and the endlessness that you fear

Define happiness: is it just the absence of sadness, or is there more to it?