Body of a woman, white hills, white thighs,
you look like a world, lying in surrender.
My rough peasant’s body digs in you
and makes the son leap from the depth of the earth.
I was lone like a tunnel. The birds fled from me,
and nigh swamped me with its crushing invasion.
To survive myself I…
We’re perched headlong
on the edge of boredom
We’re reaching for death
on the end of a candle
We’re trying for something
That’s already found us
—James Douglas (Jim) Morrison, from “An American Prayer” (via fables-of-the-reconstruction)