And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.