For Darkness Restores What Light Cannot Repair.

Poetry Is What Is Gained In Translation.

On The Whole, Love Comes With The Speed Of Light; Separation, With That Of Sound.

The Delirium And Horror Of The East. The Dusty Catastrophe Of Asia. Green Only On The Banner Of The Prophet. Nothing Grows Here Except Mustaches.

The Formula For Prison Is A Lack Of Space Counterbalanced By A Surplus Of Time. This Is What Really Bothers You, That You Can't Win. Prison Is Lack Of Alternatives, And The Telescopic Predictability Of The Future Is What Drives You Crazy.

How Delightful To Find A Friend In Everyone.