All Children Are Sweet At Five. But

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

Inspiration Is A Farce That Poets Have Invented To Give Themselves Importance.

Tragedy Is Clean, It Is Restful, It Is Flawless.

What Fun It Would Be To Be Poor, As Long As One Was Excessively Poor! Anything In Excess Is Most Exhilarating

I Like Reality. It Tastes Like Bread.