I Been Through Living For Years. I

The Liquor Of Statecraft Is Distilled From The Mash You Got.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death. Dead Dreams Dropping Off The Heart Like Leaves In A Dry Season And Rotting Around The Feet; Impulses Smothered Too Long In The Fetid Air Of Underground Caves. The Soul Lives In Sickly Air. People Can Be Slaveships In Shoes.

I Feel Most Colored When I Am Thrown Against A Sharp White Background.

They Bowed Down To Him Rather, Because He Was All Of These Things, And Then Again He Was All Of These Things Because The Town Bowed Down.

It's No Use Of Talking Unless People Understand What You Say.