Time's Ruins Build Eternity's Mansions.

Each Lost Soul Will Be A Hell Unto Itself, The Boundless Fire Raging In Its Very Vitals.

Ulysses He ... Saw The Dark Tangled Curls Of His Bush Floating, Floating Hair Of The Stream Around The Limp Father Of Thousands, A Languid Flatong Flower.

The State Is Concentric, But The Individual Is Eccentric.

He Thought That He Was Sick In His Heart If You Could Be Sick In That Place.

All Fiction Is Autobiographical Fantasy.