Every Present Anger Derives From Past Weakness.

Words Betrayed Her: Beautiful Butterflies In Her Mind; Dead Moths When She Opened Her Mouth For Their Release Into The World.

Life Is Nothing But A Statement Of What Happens To Be.

Poets Suffer Occasional Delusions Of Angelhood And Find Themselves Condemned To Express It In The Bric-a-brac Tongues Of The Human World. Lots Of Them Go Mad.

One Day The Ordinariness Will Be Terminally Punctuated By The Extraordinary Full Stop Of Death.

Grace Only Exists To Be Fallen From.