Time Is The School In Which We

Time Is The School In Which We Learn, Time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

Even Paranoids Have Real Enemies.

And Hence The Poet Must Seek To Be Essentially Anonymous, He Must Die A Little Death Each Morning, He Must Swallow His Toad And Study His Vomit As Baudelaire Studied La Charogne Of Jeanne Duval.

I Admired My Father Very Much... At The Age Of Sixteen. But Now I See That He Was A Brutal And Cruel Man, - But Not Without Remorse, And That Was What Tortured Us, His Alternations.

Literary Party: A Traffic Jam Of The Lost Waiting For The Ferry Across The Styx.