Were All Moving, Moving, Moving. Isnt It

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

I'm Sorry, But I Was Born With A Towel On My Head.

Knowledge Is The Harvest Of Attention

And All Now Is War Where So Lately There Was Peace, And The Sweet Brotherhood, The Use Of Tilled Fields.

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below