It Would Be Pleasant To Be Drunk.

I Wonder If The Artist Ever Lives His Life--he Is So Busy Recreating It.

Sorrow Is Easier Than Guilt.

She Suffers According To The Digits Of My Hate. I Hear The Filaments Of Alabaster. I Would Lie Down With Them And Lift My Madness Off Like A Wig. I Would Lie Outside In A Room Of Wool And Let The Snow Cover Me. Paris White Or Flake White Or Argentine, All In The Washbasin Of My Mouth, Calling “oh.” I Am Empty. I Am Witless. Death Is Here. There Is No Other Settlement.

Psychiatry Is A Dirty Mirror.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.