Time Forks Perpetually Toward Innumerable Futures.

Time Is The Substance Of Which We Are Made

Poetry Springs From Something Deeper; It's Beyond Intelligence.

The Future Has No Other Reality Than As Present Hope, And The Past Is No More Than Present Memory.

Loneliness Does Not Worry Me; Life Is Difficult Enough, Putting Up With Yourself And With Your Own Habits.

Art Is Endless Like A River Flowing, Passing, Yet Remaining.