We Are Suffering From Too Much Sarcasm.

The Sweet Air Coming Into Your House On A Fine Day, From Water Etched With Waves As Formal As The Scales On A Fish.

What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our Guilt? All Are Naked, None Is Safe.

The Enslaver Is Enslaved, The Hater, Harmed.

One Writes Because One Has A Burning Desire To Objectify What It Is Indispensable To One's Happiness To Express.

All Are / Naked, None Is Safe.