Your Voice Is Wild And Simple. You

I Should Be Proud To Have My Memory Graced, But Only If The Monument Be Placed... Here, Where I Endured Three Hundred Hours In Line Before The Implacable Iron Bars.

We Learned Not To Meet Anymore, We Don't Raise Our Eyes To One Another, But We Ourselves Won't Guarantee What Could Happen To Us In An Hour.

I Am In The Middle Of It: Chaos And Poetry; Poetry And Love And Again, Complete Chaos. Pain, Disorder, Occasional Clarity; And At The Bottom Of It All: Only Love; Poetry. Sheer Enchantment, Fear, Humiliation. It All Comes With Love

As The Future Ripens In The Past, So The Past Rots In The Future -- A Terrible Festival Of Dead Leaves.

Forgive Me, That I Manage Badly, Manage Badly But Live Gloriously, That I Leave Traces Of Myself In My Songs, That I Appeared To You In Waking Dreams.