Don't Remember Summer Even Saying Goodbye.

Leaves Turned To Soil Beneath My Feet. Thus It Is, Trees Eat Themselves.

Lunatics Are Writers Whose Works Write Them.

How Vulgar, This Hankering After Immortality, How Vain, How False. Composers Are Merely Scribblers Of Cave Paintings. One Writes Music Because Winter Is Eternal And Because, If One Didn't, The Wolves And Blizzards Would Be At One's Throat All The Sooner.

How Lazily "xperts" Dismiss What They Fail To Understand!

The Body Is The Outermost Layer Of The Mind.