We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us

In The End, Every Hypochondriac Is His Own Prophet.

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

I Was Overcome With An Attack Of Pathological Enthusiasm.

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.