I'm A Fart In A Gale Of

I Am Not A Critic; To Me Criticism Is So Often Nothing More Than The Eye Garrulously Denouncing The Shape Of The Peephole That Gives Access To Hidden Treasure.

This Head Has Risen Above Its Hair In A Moment Of Abandon Known Only To Men Who Have Drawn Their Feet Out Of Their Boots To Walk Awhile In The Corridors Of The Mind.

We Are But Skin About A Wind, With Muscles Clenched Against Mortality.

Dreams Have Only The Pigmentation Of Fact.

Man Is The Only Thing That Has No Further Use After Something Goes Amiss.