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A lonely man is a lonesome thing, a stone, a bone,
a stick, a receptacle for Gilbey's gin, a stooped figure sitting at the edge of a hotel bed, heaving copious sighs like the
autumn wind.
Literature has been the salvation
of the damned, literature has inspired and guided lovers, routed despair and can perhaps in this case save the world.
I sometimes go back to walk
through the ghostly remains of Sutton Place where the rude, new buildings stand squarely in one another's river views.
And the first rude sketch
that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, till the Devil whispered behind the leaves "It's pretty, but is it Art?"
Emptiness is loneliness, and
loneliness is cleanliness
And cleanliness is godliness,
and God is empty just like me.
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