Sleepy-head Is No Longer Aroused By Tragic

Victorian Sorrow: The Stars Are Winking In The Sky, But Not For Us.

Young Poets Bewail The Passing Of Love; Old Poets, The Passing Of Time. There Is Surprisingly Little Difference.

I Keep Eating For Fear I Will Be Hungry.

The Banker Rubs His Nose, Thinking Of His Cat Stalking Something On The Lawn.

Death Is Hacking Away At My Address Book And Party Lists.