Well, that's what art is all about, isn't it? All creative thought, actually. A bid for Immortality. So long as sloppy, stupid, so-called democracies live, the ghosts of various boring people who escape my mind still stalk about in the mess they have made.

We poets and writers are tidier, fade out in firefly evenings, a Prom and a distant train whistle, we live in a maid opening in a boiled egg for a long-ago convalescent, we live in the snow on Michael's grave falling softly like in the descent of their last end of all the living and the dead, we live in the green light at the end of Daisy's dock, in the last and greatest of human dreams ...