A whirl of travel drove me afresh over the earth; fresh sufferings were heaped up, and fresh guilt.
And every occasion when a mask was torn off, an ideal broken, was preceded by this hateful vacancy and stillness, this deathly constriction and loneliness and unrelatedness, this waste and empty hell of lovelessness and despair, such as I had now to pass through once more.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Poetic Outlaws to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.