Between Skin And Skin, There Is Only

Death Is The Room That Is Always Empty.

I Hate The Uneducated And The Ignorant. I Hate The Pompous And The Phoney. I Hate The Jealous And The Resentful. I Hate The Crabbed And Mean And The Petty. I Hate All Ordinary Dull Little People Who Aren't Ashamed Of Being Dull And Little.

The Moon Hung Over The Planet Earth, A Dead Thing Over A Dying Thing.

An Easterly Is The Most Disagreeable Wind In Lyme Bay — Lyme Bay Being That Largest Bite From The Underside Of England's Outstretched Southwestern Leg — And A Person Of Curiosity Could At Once Have Deduced Several Strong Probabilities About The Pair Who Began To Walk Down The Quay At Lyme Regis, The Small But Ancient Eponym Of The Inbite, One Incisively Sharp And Blustery Morning In The Late March Of 1867.

He Felt Himself In Suspension Between The Two Worlds, The Warm, Neat Civilization Behind His Back, The Cool, Dark Mystery Outside. We All Write Poems; It Is Simply That Poets Are The Ones Who Write In Words.