We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.