Death Is The Only Real Elegance.

It Is The Loose Ends With Which Men Hang Themselves.

Most People Hew The Battlements Of Life From Compromise, Erecting Their Impregnable Keeps From Judicious Submissions, Fabricating Their Philosophical Drawbridges From Emotional Retractions And Scalding Marauders In The Boiling Oil Of Sour Grapes.

A Vacuum Can Only Exist, I Imagine, By The Things Which Enclose It.

I Remember Every Single Spot Of Light That Ever Gouged A Shadow Beside Your Bones.

It's Terrible To Allow Conventional Habits To Gain A Hold On A Whole Household; To Eat, Sleep And Live By Clock Ticks.