There Is No Truth. Only Points Of

The Busy Chatter Of The Heat Shrilled Like A Parakeet; And Shuddering At The Noonday Light The Dust Lay Dead And White As Powder On A Mummy's Face, Or Fawned With Simian Grace Round Booths With Many A Hard Bright Toy And Wooden Brittle Joy: The Cap And Bells Of Time The Clown That, Jangling, Whistled Down Young Cherubs Hidden In The Guise Of Every Bird That Flies; And Star-bright Masks For Youth To Wear, Lest Any Dream That Fare Bright Pilgrim Past Our Ken, Should See Hints Of Reality.

All Great Art Contains An Element Of The Irrational.

The Light Would Show (if It Could Harden) Eternities Of Kitchen Garden

There Is No Truth. Only Points Of View.

My Personal Hobbies Are Reading, Listening To Music, And Silence.