A Throw Of The Dice Will Never

In Reading, A Lonely Quiet Concert Is Given To Our Minds; All Our Mental Faculties Will Be Present In This Symphonic Exaltation.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.

Dreams Have As Much Influences As Actions.

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.