...all Cynicism Masks A Failure To Cope.

The Bowed Head, The Buried Face. She Is Silent, She Will Never Speak, Never Forgive, Never Reach A Hand, Never Leave This Frozen Present Tense. All Waits, Suspended. Suspended The Autumn Trees, The Autumn Sky, Anonymous People. A Blackbird, Poor Fool, Sings Out Of Season From The Willows By The Lake. A Flight Of Pigeons Over The Houses; Fragments Of Freedom, Hazard, An Anagram Made Flesh. And Somewhere The Stinging Smell Of Burning Leaves.

I Love Making, I Love Doing. I Love Being To The Full, I Love Everything Which Is Not Sitting And Watching And Copying And Dead At Heart.

The Privileges Of Knowledge Have To Be Bought At The Cost Of The Consolations Of Ignorance.

Science Disembodies; Art Embodies.

You're Not Me. You Can't Feel Like I Feel." "i Can Feel." "no You Can't. You Just Choose Not To Feel Or Something And Everything's Fine." "it's Not Fine. It's Just Not So Bad.