Our Lives Are Fictions, A Work We

Hate: Return To Sender; Address Unknown.

Events, Time, Forms, All Propel The Inner Plot Within Each Of Us.

Little Did The Artist Know, Who Neglected His Appearance In Favor Of His Work, That The Years Would Produce A Breed That Spent Hours Meticulously Acquiring A Neglected Look To Appear Like An Artist.

Poetry Is Our Heart, Our Spirit, Our Soul. Call It Whatever; Without It, Everything Else Is Nothing But Hardware.

Understanding Precedes Peace.