Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Second-hand Gloves Will Become Lovely Again, Their Memories Are What Give Them The Need For Other Hands. And The Desolation Of Lovers Is The Same: That Enormous Emptiness Carved Out Of Such Tiny Beings As We Are Asks To Be Filled; The Need For The New Love Is Faithfulness To The Old.

I Will Find That Special Person Who Is Wrong For Me In Just The Right Way.

I Have Always Intended To Live Forever; But Not Until Now, To Live Now.

The Rest Of My Days I Spend Wandering: Wondering What, Anyway, Was That Sticky Infusion, That Rank Flavor Of Blood, That Poetry, By Which I Lived?

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying