I Am Quite Alone. I Am Neither

The Appalling Thing Is The Degree Of Charity Women Are Capable Of. You See It All The Time... Love Lavished On Absolute Fools. Love's A Charity Ward, You Know.

Guilt Always Hurries Towards Its Complement, Punishment: Only There Does Its Satisfaction Lie.

Frost In January Minus 20 For A Week. Dead Birds Frozen On The Branch—they Fall With The First Thaw Like Ripe Fruit—death-ripened. We Shall All End Like Them—just A Stain In The Snow.

Let Us Define 'man' As A Poet Perpetually Conspiring Against Himself.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.