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If I worship one thing more than another it shall be the spread of my own body, or any part of it, Translucent mould of me it shall be you!
Agonies are one of my changes of garments, I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person, My hurts turn livid upon free essay on hiv aids as I lean on a cane and observe. And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.
Whimpering and truckling fold with powders for invalids, conformity goes to the fourth-remov'd, I wear my hat as I please indoors or out. I do not snivel that snivel the world over, That months are vacuums and the ground but wallow and filth.
You sweaty brooks and dews it shall be you! I will accept nothing which all cannot have their counterpart of on the same terms.