With This Pen I Take In Hand

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

Not That It Was Beautiful, But That, In The End, There Was A Certain Sense Of Order There; Something Worth Learning In That Narrow Diary Of My Mind

Oh Sharp Diamond, My Mother! I Could Not Count The Cost Of All Your Faces, Your Moods That Present That I Lost. Sweet Girl, My Deathbed, My Jewel-fingered Lady...

Maybe, Although My Heart Is A Kitten Of Butter, I Am Blowing It Up Like A Zeppelin.

God Is Only Mocked By Believers.