Only Brooms Know The Devil Still Exists,

I Left Parts Of Myself Everywhere, The Way Absent-minded People Leave Gloves And Umbrellas Whose Colors Are Sad From Dispensing So Much Bad Luck

I'm Not A Stickler For Truth. To Me, Lying In Poetry Is Much More Fun. I'm Against Lying In Life, In Principle, In Any Other Activity Except Poetry.

A 'truth' Detached And Purified Of Pleasures Of Ordinary Life Is Not Worth A Damn In My View. Every Grand Theory And Noble Sentiment Ought To Be First Tested In The Kitchen-and Then In Bed, Of Course.

To Submit To Chance Is To Reveal The Self And Its Obsessions.

The Stone Is A Mirror Which Works Poorly. Nothing In It But Dimness. Your Dimness Or Its Dimness, Who's To Say? In The Hush Your Heart Sounds Like A Black Cricket.