No One's Serious At Seventeen.

I Could Never Throw Love Out Of The Window.

The Northern Lights Rise Like A Kiss To The Sea

Whose Hearts Must I Break? What Lies Must I Maintain? - Through Whose Blood Am I To Wade ?

Is It In These Bottomless Nights That You Sleep In Exile?

...i Is Another. If The Brass Wakes The Trumpet, It’s Not Its Fault. That’s Obvious To Me: I Witness The Unfolding Of My Own Thought: I Watch It, I Hear It: I Make A Stroke With The Bow: The Symphony Begins In The Depths, Or Springs With A Bound Onto The Stage. If The Old Imbeciles Hadn’t Discovered Only The False Significance Of Self, We Wouldn’t Have To Now Sweep Away Those Millions Of Skeletons Which Have Been Piling Up The Products Of Their One-eyed Intellect Since Time Immemorial, And Claiming Themselves To Be Their Authors!