Words. Words. I Play With Words, Hoping

We Are All Creatures Of The Stars And Their Forces, They Make Us, We Make Them, We Are Part Of A Dance From Which We By No Means And Not Ever May Consider Ourselves Separate.

Art Is The Mirror Of Our Betrayed Ideals.

It Has Become A Kind Of Religion That You Can't Criticise Because Then You Become A Traitor To The Great Cause, Which I Am Not. It Is Time We Began To Ask Who Are These Women Who Continually Rubbish Men. The Most Stupid, Ill-educated And Nasty Woman Can Rubbish The Nicest, Kindest And Most Intelligent Man And No One Protests ... Men Seem To Be So Cowed That They Can't Fight Back, And It Is Time They Did.

Music Attacks My Inner Ear Like An Antagonist, It's Not My World.

As The Fishes That Are Taken In An Evil Net, And As The Birds That Are Caught In The Snare; So Are The Sons Of Men Snared In Evil Time, When It Falleth Suddenly Upon Them.