Deprivation Is The Mother Of Poetry.

Everybody Knows That The Dice Are Loaded, Everybody Rolls With Their Fingers Crossed, Everybody Knows That The War Is Over, Everybody Knows The Good Guys Lost.

Except For A Couple Of Hours In The Morning Which I Passed In The Company Of A Sage I Stayed In Bed Without Food Only A Few Mouthfuls Of Water “you Are A Fine Looking Old Man” I Said To Myself In The Mirror “and What Is More You Have The Correct Attitude You Don’t Care If It Ends Or If It Goes On And As For The Women And The Music There Will Be Plenty Of That In Paradise” Then I Went To The Mosque Of Memory To Express My Gratitude

We Are So Lightly Here. It Is In Love That We Are Made. In Love We Disappear.

As Our Eyes Grow Accustomed To Sight They Armour Themselves Against Wonder.

Follow Me, The Wise Man Said, But He Walked Behind.