Anger As Soon As Fed Is Dead-

If I Read A Book And It Makes My Whole Body So Cold No Fire Can Ever Warm Me, I Know That Is Poetry.

Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A Shifting Plate.

A Color Stands Abroad On Solitary Hills That Silence Cannot Overtake, But Human Nature Feels.

Unto A Broken Heart No Other One May Go Without The High Prerogative Itself Hath Suffered Too.

There Is A Solitude Of Space. A Solitude Of Sea. A Solitude Of Death, But These Societies Shall Be Compared With That Profounder Site-that Polar Privacy. A Soul Admitted To Itself--finite Infinity.