A Sweetheart Is A Bottle Of Wine,

Always Be A Poet, Even In Prose.

It Is By Universal Misunderstanding That All Agree. For If, By Ill Luck, People Understood Each Other, They Would Never Agree.

On The Vaporization And The Centralization Of The Self. All Is There.

Dancing Is Poetry With Arms And Legs.

How Bittersweet It Is, On Winter's Night, To Listen, By The Sputtering, Smoking Fire, As Distant Memories, Through The Fog-dimmed Light, Rise, To The Muffled Chime Of Churchbell Choir.