Distance Is The Only Cure For Certain

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.

...she Woke Up In Time To See The Sun Sending Up Spies Ahead Of Him To Mark Out The Road Through The Dark. He Peeped Up Over The Door Sill Of The World And Made A Little Foolishness With Red.

I Love Myself When I Am Laughing. . . And Then Again When I Am Looking Mean And Impressive.

I Made Up My Mind To Keep My Feelings To Myself Since They Did Not Seem To Matter To Anyone Else But Me.

I Did Not Just Fall In Love. I Made A Parachute Jump.