To Lay Down One's Life For The

Trust Me No Tortures Which The Poets Feign Can Match The Fierce Unutterable Pain He Feels, Who Night And Day Devoid Of Rest Carries His Own Accuser In His Breast.

The Smell Of Profit Is Clean And Sweet, Whatever The Source.

To Gain A Livelihood At The Expense Of All That Makes Life Worth The Having.

Indignation Leads To The Making Of Poetry. [lat., Facit Indignatio Versum.]

Autumn Is The Harvest Of Greedy Death.