The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below

Atlantis Will Rise Again.

I'm One Of The Cliches That Has Grown Up.

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

Forgive Me If I Sleep Until I Wake Up.