Life Is Hell, But At Least There

So We Went To Bed, Assaulted By Sleep That Fumed At Us From Medicine Glasses, Or Was Wielded From Small Sweet-coated Tablets -- Dainty Bricks Of Dream Wrapped In The Silk Stockings Of Oblivion.

They Think I'm Going To Be A Schoolteacher But I'm Going To Be A Poet.

We Could Think Or Feel As We Wished Toward The Characters, Or As The Poet, Discounting History, Invited Us To; We Were The Poet's Guest, His World Was His Own Kingdom, Reached, As One Of The Poems Told Us, Through The 'ring Of Words.

Writing A Novel Is Not Merely Going On A Shopping Expedition Across The Border To An Unreal Land: It Is Hours And Years Spent In The Factories, The Streets, The Cathedrals Of The Imagination.

I Am Not Really A Writer. I Am Just Someone Who Is Haunted, And I Will Write The Hauntings Down.