Form Is Never More Than An Extension

My Wife And I Lived All Alone, Contention Was Our Only Bone. I Fought With Her, She Fought With Me, And Things Went On Right Merrily. But Now I Live Here By Myself With Hardly A Damn Thing On The Shelf, And Pass My Days With Little Cheer Since I Have Parted From My Dear.

God Give You Pardon From Gratitude And Other Mild Forms Of Servitude.

I Will Go To The Garden. I Will Be A Romantic. I Will Sell Myself In Hell, In Heaven Also I Will Be.

My Nature Is A Quagmire Of Unresolved Confessions.

O Love, Where Are You Leading Me Now?