I Don't Think In Any Language. I

Do What Only A True Artist Can Do ... Pounce Upon The Forgotten Butterfly Of Revelation

We Hasten To Alienate The Very Fates We Intended To Woo.

A Person Hoping To Become A Poet Must Have The Capacity Of Thinking Of Several Things At A Time.

To Know That No One Before You Has Seen An Organ You Are Examining, To Trace Relationships That Have Occurred To No One Before, To Immerse Yourself In The Wondrous Crystalline World Of The Microscope, Where Silence Reigns, Circumscribed By Its Own Horizon, A Blindingly White Arena - All This Is So Enticing That I Cannot Describe It.

Some People, And I Am One Of Them, Hate Happy Ends. We Feel Cheated. Harm Is The Norm.