Only Those Who Will Risk Going Too

My Name Is Only An Anagram Of Toilets.

My Life Is Light, Waiting For The Death Wind, Like A Feather On The Back Of My Hand.

The Good Poet Welds His Theft Into A Whole Of Feeling Which Is Unique, Utterly Different From That From Which It Was Torn; The Bad Poet Throws It Into Something Which Has No Cohesion.

Our Lives Are Mostly A Constant Evasion Of Ourselves, And Of Our Visible, Sensible World.

The Soul Of Man Must Quicken To Creation.