Poetry Is A Religion With No Hope.

Art Is Science In The Flesh.

Poetry, Being Elegance Itself, Cannot Hope To Achieve Visibility... It Insists On Living Its Own Life.

Living Is A Horizontal Fall.

The Poet Doesn't Invent. He Listens.

All Good Music Resembles Something. Good Music Stirs By Its Mysterious Resemblance To The Objects And Feelings Which Motivated It.