Good Poets Borrow, Great Poets Steal

Every Moment Is A New And Shocking Transvaluation Of All We Have Ever Been.

The Nightingales Are Singing Near The Convent Of The Sacred Heart, And Sang Within The Bloody Wood When Agamemnon Cried Aloud, And Let Their Liquid Siftings Fall To Stain The Stiff Dishonored Shroud.

Past Art Is Subject To Change.

He Who Was Living Is Now Dead We Who Were Living Are Now Dying With A Little Patience.

What We Know Of Other People's Only Our Memory Of The Moments During Which We Knew Them.