What, what am I to do with all of this life?
Life must be aromatic. There must be scent, somehow there must be some.
Goodness begins simply with the fact of life itself.
Poetry is life distilled.
Exhaust the little moment. Soon it dies. And be it gash or gold it will not come Again in this identical guise.
This is the urgency: Live! and have your blooming in the noise of the whirlwind.