Hell Is A Half-filled Auditorium.

The Artist In Me Cries Out For Design.

Nothing Is Quite Honest That Is Not Commercial, But Not Everything Commercial Is Honest.

Life Is Tons Of Discipline.

But These Are Flowers That Fly And All But Sing: And Now From Having Ridden Out Desire They Lie Closed Over In The Wind And Cling Where Wheels Have Freshly Sliced The April Mire.

If One By One We Counted People Out