At Midnight Tears Run Into Your Ears.

O God, In The Dream The Terrible Horse Began To Paw At The Air, And Make For Me With His Blows.

Innocence Of Heart And Violence Of Feeling Are Necessary In Any Kind Of Superior Achievement: The Arts Cannot Exist Without Them.

Women Have No Wilderness In Them They Are Provident Instead Content In The Tight Hot Cell Of Their Hearts To Eat Dusty Bread.

I Hope That One Or Two Immortal Lyrics Will Come Out Of All This Tumbling Around.

What We Suffer, What We Endure, What We Muff, What We Kill, What We Miss, What We Are Guilty Of, Is Done By Us, As Individuals, In Private.