Only The Opium Eater Truly Understands The

I Dream That My Face Appears On A Postage Stamp.

I Believe That Writing Is An Account Of The Powers Of Extrication.

I Do Not Understand The Capricious Lewdness Of The Sleeping Mind.

For Me, A Page Of Good Prose Is Where One Hears The Rain And The Noise Of Battle. It Has The Power To Give Grief Or Universality That Lends It A Youthful Beauty.

I Sometimes Go Back To Walk Through The Ghostly Remains Of Sutton Place Where The Rude, New Buildings Stand Squarely In One Another's River Views.