In The End, There Is No End.

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

If Youth Is A Defect, It Is One We Outgrow Too Soon.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

Everywhere, Giant Finned Cars Nose Forward Like Fish; A Savage Servility Slides By On Grease.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye