That Penny Farthing Hell You Call Your

There Is At Least This To Be Said For Mind, That It Can Dispel Mind.

Love, That Is All I Asked, A Little Love, Daily, Twice Daily, Fifty Years Of Twice Daily Love Like A Paris Horse-butcher's Regular, What Normal Woman Wants Affection?

Never But The One Matter. The Dead And Gone. The Dying And Going. From The Word Go.

All Poetry, As Discriminated From The Various Paradigms Of Prosody, Is Prayer.

I Did Not Want To Write, But I Had To Resign Myself To It In The End.