No Two Things The Same, The Equals

I Shall Strip Away Layer After Layer Of Grime -- The Toffee-colored Varnish And Caked Soot Left By A Lifetime Of Dissembling -- Until I Come To The Very Thing Itself And Know It For What It Is. My Soul. My Self.

You Will Remember This When All Else Fades, This Moment, Here, Together, By This Well. There Will Be Certain Days, And Certain Nights, You’ll Feel My Presence Near You, Hear My Voice. You’ll Think You Have Imagined It And Yet, Inside You, You Will Catch An Answering Cry. On April Evenings, When The Rain Has Ceased, Your Heart Will Shake, You’ll Weep For Nothing, Pine For What’s Not There. For You, This Life Will Never Be Enough, There Will Forever Be An Emptiness, Where Once The God Was All In All In You.

Poetry Is That Magic Which Consists In Awakening Sensations With The Help Of A Combination Of Sounds ... That Sorcery By Which Ideas Are Necessarily Communicated To Us, In A Definite Way, By Words Which Nevertheless Do Not Express Them.

All Art At A Certain Level Is Entertainment. We Go To A Tragedy By Sophocles To Be Entertained.

I Am The Worst Judge Of My Books.