When A Writer Is Born Into A

A True Opium Of The People Is A Belief In Nothingness After Death - The Huge Solace Of Thinking That For Our Betrayals, Greed, Cowardice, Murders We Are Not Going To Be Judged.

All Was Taken Away From You: White Dresses, Wings, Even Existence. Yet I Believe You, Messengers. There, Where The World Is Turned Inside Out, A Heavy Fabric Embroidered With Stars And Beasts, You Stroll, Inspecting The Trustworthy Seams.

I Am Composed Of Contradictions, Which Is Why Poetry Is A Better Form For Me Than Philosophy

Be Young Forever, Seasons Of The Earth.

All Of Us Yearn For The Highest Wisdom, But We Have To Rely On Ourselves In The End.