The American Mirror, Said The Voice, The

Dreams Fade With Morning Light, Never A Morn For Thee, Dreamer Of Dreams, Goodnight.

Every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me.

When People Read His Books They Have An Uncontrollable Desire To Hang The Author In The Town Square. I Can’t Think Of A Higher Honor For A Writer.

The Diseased, Anyway, Are More Interesting Than The Healthy. The Words Of The Diseased, Even Those Who Can Manage Only A Murmur, Carry More Weight Than Those Of The Healthy. Then, Too, All Healthy People Will In The Future Know Disease. That Sense Of Time, Ah, The Diseased Man’s Sense Of Time, What Treasure Hidden In A Desert Cave. Then, Too The Diseased Truly Bite, Whereas The Healthy Pretend To Bite But Really Only Snap At The Air. Then, Too, Then, Too, Then, Too.

Nothing Good Ever Comes Of Love. What Comes Of Love Is Always Something Better