You Remind Me Of A Smoked Cigarette.

I'm Merely Trying To Give You The Sort Of Argument That Would Appeal To Your Intelligence.

One Thin's Sure And Nothing's Surer The Rich Get Richer And The Poor Get - Children. In The Meantime, In Between Time...

For Awhile After You Quit Keats All Other Poetry Seems To Be Only Whistling Or Humming.

But With Every Word She Was Drawing Further And Further Into Herself, So He Gave That Up, And Only The Dead Dream Fought On As The Afternoon Slipped Away, Trying To Touch What Was No Longer Tangible, Struggling Unhappily, Undespairingly, Toward That Lost Voice Across The Room.

Art Isn't Meaningless... It Is In Itself. It Isn't In That It Tries To Make Life Less So.