It's Impossible I Should Have A Mind

To-morrow, When I Wake, Or Think I Do, What Shall I Say Of To-day?

The Blind Have No Notion Of Time. The Things Of Time Are Hidden From Them Too.

What Goes By The Name Of Love Is Banishment, With Now And Then A Postcard From The Homeland, Such Is My Considered Opinion, This Evening.

The Only Sin Is The Sin Of Being Born.

I Speak For An Art ... Weary Of Its Puny Exploits, Weary Of Pretending To Be Able, Of Being Able, Of Doing A Little Better The Same Old Thing, Of Going A Little Further Along A Dreary Road.