. .how sad, no way to change the mad cultivated asphodel, the visible reality. . and skin's appalling petals- how inspired to be so Iying in the living room drunk naked and dreaming, in the absence of electricity. . over and over eating the low root of the asphodel, gray fate. . rolling in generation on the flowery couch as on a bank in Arden — my only rose tonite's the treat of my own nudity.
Song
The weight of the world is love. Under the burden of solitude, under the burden of dissatisfaction the weight, the weight we carry is love. Who can deny? In dreams it touches the body, in thought constructs a miracle, in imagination anguishes till born in human — looks out of the heart burning with purity — for the burden of life is love, but we carry the weight wearily, and so must rest in the arms of love at last, must rest in the arms of love. No rest without love, no sleep without dreams of love — be mad or chill obsessed with angels or machines, the final wish is love — cannot be bitter, cannot deny, cannot withhold if denied: the weight is too heavy — must give for no return as thought is given in solitude in all the excellence of its excess. The warm bodies shine together in the darkness, the hand moves to the center of the flesh, the skin trembles in happiness and the soul comes joyful to the eye — yes, yes, that's what I wanted, I always wanted, I always wanted, to return to the body where I was born.
