The Center That I Cannot Find Is

Geniuses Are The Luckiest Of Mortals Because What They Must Do Is The Same As What They Most Want To Do.

To Save Your World You Asked This Man To Die; Would This Man, Could He See You Now, Ask Why?

Good Can Imagine Evil; But Evil Cannot Imagine Good.

Composing Mortals With Immortal Fire.

Defenceless Under The Night Our World In Stupor Lies; Yet, Dotted Everywhere, Ironic Points Of Light Flash Out Wherever The Just Exchange Their Messages: May I, Composed Like Them Of Eros And Of Dust, Beleaguered By The Same Negation And Despair, Show An Affirming Flame.