Still, Vicious Or Virtuous, Love Suits Most

Get Stewed:books Are A Load Of Crap.

But, O, Photography! As No Art Is,faithful And Disappointing! That Recordsdull Days As Dull, And Hold-it Smiles As Frauds,and Will Not Censor Blemishes,like Washing-lines, And Hall's-distemper Boards

I Didn't Choose Poetry: Poetry Chose Me.

To Write You Must Be Warm, Fed, Loved And Sober.

In Everyone There Sleeps. A Sense Of Life Lived According To Love. To Some It Means The Difference They Could Make. By Loving Others, But Across Most It Sweeps. As All They Might Have Done Had They Been Loved. That Nothing Cures.