Perfection Is Terrible, It Cannot Have Children.

I Have A Violence In Me That Is Hot As Death-blood.

I Have Let Things Slip, A Thirty-year~old Cargo Boat Stubbornly Hanging On To My Name And Address.

The Artist's Life Nourishes Itself On The Particular, The Concrete.

Sometimes I Feel So Stupid And Dull And Uncreative That I Am Amazed When People Tell Me Differently.

I’ll Never Speak To God Again.