Written By A Sponge Dipped In Warm

Fermentation Equals Civilization.

What Has Any Poet To Trust More Than The Feel Of The Thing? Theory Concerns Him Only Until He Picks Up His Pen, And It Begins To Concern Him Again As Soon As He Lays It Down.

Boys Are The Cash Of War.

Every Parent Is At Some Time The Father Of The Unreturned Prodigal, With Nothing To Do But Keep His House Open To Hope.

One Night I Dreamed I Was Locked In My Father's Watch With Ptolemy And Twenty-one Ruby Stars Mounted On Spheres And The Primum Mobile Coiled And Gleaming To The End Of Space And The Notched Spheres Eating Each Other's Rinds To The Last Tooth Of Time, And The Case Closed.