Happy Was She Who Could Believe Without

I Realized That Searching Was My Symbol, The Emblem Of Those Who Go Out At Night With Nothing In Mind, The Motives Of A Destroyer Of Compasses.

A Short Story Relies On Those Values That Make Poetry And Jazz What They Are: Tension, Rhythms, Inner Beat, Into Unforeseen Within Foreseen Parameters

Human History Is The Sad Result Of Each One Looking Out For Himself.

The Evolution From Happiness To Habit Is One Of Death's Best Weapons.

In Quoting Others, We Cite Ourselves.