It Is Night, And It Is Vanity,

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

The Lord Survives The Rainbow Of His Will.

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.