The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.

I Feel Myself Inhabited By A Force Or Being -- Very Little Known To Me. It Gives The Orders; I Follow.

The Dead Drug Leaves A Ghost Behind. At Certain Hours It Haunts The House.

A Man's Truest Self Realizations Might Require Him, Above All, To Learn To Close His Eyes: To Let Himself Be Taken Unawares, To Follow His Dark Angel, To Risk His Illegal Instincts.

Living Is A Horizontal Fall.

We Are In A Period Of Such Individualism That One No Longer Speaks Of Disciples; One Speaks Of Thieves.