Bill Wordsworth and Bill Witherup, each reenacted his own time in the flaws and runnels of their mind. With such a theme / Coleridge! with this my argument of thee Shall I be silent? Thus, She left me for love of Nietzsche: Found men merely mortal; Went through us all.    Framed the world then stepped into it, confident its flesh has remained, on the whole, foreign to the discourse of philosophy, its ghosts have nonetheless continued to haunt it in a picture I've created, tuning my perspective to syntactical leaps, until I could say, I too am wild, and, like the universe, 95% unknown.