Everything In Life Is Writable.

Do I Like To Write? Why? About What? Will I Give Up And Say, "living And Feeding A Man's Insatiable Guts And Begetting Children Occupies My Whole Life. Don't Have Time To Write"?

We Walk The Plank With Strangers.

Do We Always Grind Through The Present, Doomed To Throw A Gold Haze Of Fond Retrospect Over The Past?

If There's Anything I Look Down On, It's A Man In A Blue Outfit.

I Am Dead To Them, Even Though I Once Flowered.