Who Am I To Myself? Just A

Life Is Good, But Wine Is Better.

The Poet Is A Pretender. / He Pretends So Completely, / That He Even Pretends That It Is Pain / The Pain He Really Feels.

I Am Tired Of Myself In Every Way. All Things, Deep Down To The Secret Of Their Roots, Are Stained By The Color Of My Weariness.

To Be Understood Is To Prostitute Oneself

I Carry My Awareness Of Defeat Like A Banner Of Victory.