Oh What A Poet I Will Flay

I Can't Deceive Myself Out Of The Bare Stark Realization That No Matter How Enthusiastic You Are, No Matter How Sure That Character Is Fate, Nothing Is Real, Past Or Future, When You Are Alone In Your Room With The Clock Ticking Loudly Into The False Cheerful Brilliance Of The Electric Light. And If You Have No Past Or Future Which, After All, Is All That The Present Is Made Of, Why Then You May As Well Dispose Of The Empty Shell Of Present And Commit Suicide.

Compared With Me, A Tree Is Immortal.

I Dream Too Much, Work Too Little.

No Day Is Safe From News Of You.

I Felt Wise And Cynical As All Hell.