Progress Is A Comfortable Disease.

Love Is The Voice Under All Silences, The Hope Which Has No Opposite In Fear. . .

An Artist, A Man, A Failure, Must Proceed.

Nothing Which We Are To Perceive In This World Equals The Power Of Your Intense Fragility:whose Texture Compels Me With The Colour Of Its Countries, Rendering Death And Forever With Each Breathing (i Do Not Know What It Is About You That Closes And Opens;only Something In Me Understands The Voice Of Your Eyes Is Deeper Than All Roses) Nobody,not Even The Rain, Has Such Small Hands -excerpt Of #35 From "100 Selected Poems

Anyone Lived In A Pretty How Town (with Up So Floating Many Bells Down) Spring Summer Autumn Winter He Sang His Didn't He Danced His Did.

When Skies Are Hanged And Oceans Drowned, The Single Secret Will Still Be Man