It Is My Heart That's Late, It

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

I Have Walked Through Many Lives, Some Of Them My Own, And I Am Not Who I Was, Though Some Principle Of Being Abides, From Which I Struggle Not To Stray.

My Mother Never Forgave My Father

The Supreme Morality Of Art Is To Endure.