I, Who Thought To Sink, Was Caught

He's Just, Your Cousin, Ay, Abhorrently, He'd Wash His Hands In Blood, To Keep Them Clean.

This Race Is Never Grateful: From The First, One Fills Their Cup At Supper With Pure Wine, Which Back They Give At Cross-time On A Sponge, In Bitter Vinegar.

Art Is Much, But Love Is More.

The Charm, One Might Say The Genius, Of Memory Is That It Is Choosy, Chancy And Temperamental; It Rejects The Edifying Cathedral And Indelibly Photographs The Small Boy Outside, Chewing A Hunk Of Melon In The Dust.

I Worked With Patience Which Means Almost Power.