Oh, All You Immigrants And Visionaries, What

I Was Living My Own Future And My Brother's Lost One As Well. I Represented Him Here Just As He Represented Me There, In Some Unguessable Other Place. His Move From Life To Death Might Resemble My Stepping Into The Kitchen - Into Its Soft Nowhere Quality And Foggy Hum. I Breathed The Dark Air. If I Had At That Moment A Sense Of Calm Kindly Death While My Heart Beat And My Lungs Expanded, He Might Know A Similar Sense Of Life In The Middle Of His Ongoing Death.

She Will Remain Sane And She Will Live As She Was Meant To Live, Richly And Deeply, Among Others Of Her Kind, In Full Possession And Command Of Her Gifts.

I Remember One Morning Getting Up At Dawn, There Was Such A Sense Of Possibility. You Know, That Feeling? And I Remember Thinking To Myself: So, This Is The Beginning Of Happiness. This Is Where It Starts. And Of Course There Will Always Be More. It Never Occurred To Me It Wasn't The Beginning. It Was Happiness. It Was The Moment. Right Then.

There Is Still That Singular Perfection, And It's Perfect In Part Because It Seemed, At The Time, So Clearly To Promise More.

But There Are Still The Hours, Aren't There? One And Then Another, And You Get Through That One And Then, My God, There's Another.