To Define Is To Kill. To Suggest

There Is Only Beauty / And It Has Only One Perfect Expression / Poetry. All The Rest Is A Lie /except For Those Who Live By The Body, Love, And, That Love Of The Mind, Friendship. For Me, Poetry Takes The Place Of Love, Because It Is Enamored Of Itself, And Because Its Sensual Delight Falls Back Deliciously In My Soul.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.

Poets Don't Finish Poems, They Abandon Them.

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.

Yes, I Know, We Are Merely Empty Forms Of Matter, But We Are Indeed Sublime In Having Invented God And Our Soul. So Sublime, My Friend, That I Want To Gaze Upon Matter, Fully Conscious That It Exists, And Yet Launching Itself Madly Into Dream, Despite Its Knowledge That Dream Has No Existence, Extolling The Soul And All The Divine Impressions Of That Kind Which Have Collected Within Us From The Beginning Of Time And Proclaiming, In The Face Of The Void Which Is Truth, These Glorious Lies!