Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their

I Write With Experiences In Mind, But I Don't Write About Them, I Write Out Of Them.

Death Is A New Office Building Filled With Modern Furniture, A Wise Thing, But Which Has No Purpose For Us.

I Always Thought That Writing Poetry Was In Itself A Political Act.

We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented Sink. The Soft Enchantments Of Our Years Of Innocence Are Harvested By Accredited Experience Our Fondest Memories Soon Turn To Poison And Only Oblivion Remains In Season.

I Lost My Ridiculous Accent Without Acquiring Another