In Epistles

Hello Artaud. I found you in my links and digress to put up this, between what I started with you and how now, without a word to register. I walk into the room and the sweat. This is the suggestion, overriding my concern for you, the angle of my jaw in silence–how it hurts. I [...]

there and there are the roses, tongues of roses and inside bugs. The raised lace curtains pertaining to roses, winter placings of rose on the earth. Snow spreads like a plate on and on it the roses there are are there.

as many as glasses hold, up to the light, sounding so in the barrels of brandy, as it is, its bottles mottled in dirt. My unsteadiness is bed. To drink and drink in, fooly the body of this. The hard chord of one impulse. I pressed a sour pear to my mouth in spite of [...]

snow so spent. An evening in the valley. The stags small as black flowers shaking their hair. These Portraits.  Of small holes, you said, and I followed through with it. No need to stop. I talked the entire downward feeling.