All Who Love Have Lied.

Only My Books Anoint Me, And A Few Friends, Those Who Reach Into My Veins.

I Was Only Sitting Here In My White Study With The Awful Black Words Pushing Me Around.

It Would Be Pleasant To Be Drunk.

My Objects Dream And Wear New Costumes, Compelled To, It Seems, By All The Words In My Hands And The Sea That Bangs In My Throat.

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.