YOU are the priceless one. Most poets are the wind. Such wounds must not be hoarded but surrendered in regret. Love. Virtue. Egypt. Who alone is free. I come here to see if the light fantastic can stick to given walls. The eyelids into ecstasies where lovers are mostly still as the music runs through usually only one of them, but there are always souls walking through the desert who might need a ride. I would rather be a poet than a writer because the poets are the ones who have gotten my fat white ass out of Dodge more than once and several times I am usually just stupid in disobedience. Right onward. There is no plan other than getting up in the morning and running nude with nymphs down dunes and golden days and hard and into great cold seas where spirits are the ones of either sex in desolation. They would be poets, too, but they would have to pay for it.