Being With People Makes Me Vomit. I

There Are Lives Lived For Love, And Lives Lived For Art. We, Happy Band, Have Chosen The Later Persuasion.

We Are All Our Own Graveyards, I Believe; We Squat Amongst The Tombs Of The People We Were. If We're Healthy, Every Day Is A Celebration, A Day Of The Dead, In Which We Give Thanks For The Lives That We Lived, And If We Are Neurotic We Brood And Mourn And Wish That The Past Was Still Present.

One Part Of Love Is Innocence One Part Of Love Is Guilt One Part The Milk That In A Sense Is Soured As Soon As Spilt One Part Of Love Is Sentiment One Part Of Love Is Lust One Part Is The Presentiment Of Our Return To Dust

Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

The Moon Had Risen Behind Him, The Color Of A Shark's Underbelly. It Lit The Ruined Walls, And The Skin Of His Arms And Hands, With Its Sickly Light, Making Him Long For A Mirror In Which To Study His Face. Surely He'd Be Able To See The Bones Beneath The Meat; The Skull Gleaming The Way His Teeth Gleamed When He Smiled. After All, Wasn't That What A Smile Said? Hello, World, This Is The Way I'll Look When The Wet Parts Are Rotted.