Irony Is The Glory Of Slaves.

A Weak Human Mercy Walks In The Corridors Of Hospitals And Is Like A Half-thawed Winter.

Two Attributes Of A Poet, Avidity Of The Eye And The Desire To Describe That Which He Sees.

There Was A Time When Only Wise Books Were Read Helping Us To Bear Our Pain And Misery. This, After All, Is Not Quite The Same As Leafing Through A Thousand Works Fresh From Psychiatric Clinics. And Yet The World Is Different From What It Seems To Be And We Are Other Than How We See Ourselves In Our Ravings.

Consolation Calm Down. Both Your Sins And Your Good Deeds Will Be Lost In Oblivion.

I Am Composed Of Contradictions, Which Is Why Poetry Is A Better Form For Me Than Philosophy