I know where the half-dead hug their last secrets: the fungi-focus, inertia's children; how they stay there-- limp as drenched insects-- so happy with themselves.
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You're a living example that the mystics were right: we must escape the ego.
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In spite of all the paraphernalia for keeping things together, how haphazard life is, and the judgements of time.
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The spiritual growth's an oscillatory thing: we move by shivers in the world's tumultuous spine.
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I have begun, again, my long training as an enemy of contemporary custom.
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Alas, he's degenerated into a civilized man.
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He hasn't got time in his life for a dog or a cat. All he's got room for is improvement.
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To be less than you are is so easy: even a child needs no lesson in this.
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Civilization is over rated: but there isn't anything much else.
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To each his own labyrinth.
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Self-knowledge: the supreme, perhaps the only, good?
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I'm here, where time stares.
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I can't fly, except into the wind.
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I'd live among the fish if I could.
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I live in a half-night, outside a dream, yet not within life. My dreams don't understand me.
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Both inner and outer reality the same: the final secret...
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May your feet imitate heaven.
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Dust shall be, shall see.
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I believe, even in sleep.
--from 'The Right to Say Maybe'; Theodore Roethke (assembled by David Wagoner)
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