A book should be like a lot of spit. But who would publish me? Who publishes a person who’s sort of soaking in pain, who can’t always walk, employed only pretty much in name?
“Where, where are now the great reports
Of those huge haugthy earth-born giants?
Where are the lofty tow’rs and forts
Of those proud kings bade Heav’n defiance?
When them I to my mind revoke,
Methinks I see a mighty smoke
Thick mounting from quick-burning matter
Which in an instant winds do scatter.”
Joshua Sylvester | “Fuimus Fumus”