What You Don’t Know, You Can’t Tell.

The Late Afternoon Sunlight, Warm As Oil, Sweet As Childhood.

Outlines Are The Last Resource Of Bad Fiction Writers Who Wish To God They Were Writing Masters' Theses.

Every Religion Lies. Every Moral Precept Is A Delusion. Even The Stars Are A Mirage. The Truth Is Darkness, And The Only Thing That Matters Is Making A Statement Before One Enters It. Cutting The Skin Of The World And Leaving A Scar. That's All History Is, After All: Scar Tissue.

Life Was A Wheel, Its Only Job Was To Turn, And It Always Came Back To Where It Started.

The Poets Continually And Sometimes Wilfully Mistake Love. Love Is The Old Slaughterer.