We Can Never Be Born Enough.

The Artist Is No Other Than He Who Unlearns What He Has Learned, In Order To Know Himself.

May My Heart Always Be Open To Little Birds, Who Are The Secrets Of Living. Whatever They Sing Is Better Than To Know. And If Men Should Not Hear Them - Then Men Are Old.

One's Not Half Two. It's Two Are Halves Of One.

My Mind Is A Big Hunk Of Irrevocable Nothing Which Touch And Taste And Smell And Hearing And Sight Keep Hitting And Chipping With Sharp Fatal Tools In An Agony Of Sensual Chisels I Perform Squirms Of Chrome And Ex -ecute Strides Of Cobalt Nevertheless I Feel That I Cleverly Am Being Altered That I Slightly Am Becoming Something A Little Different, In Fact Myself Hereupon Helpless I Utter Lilac Shrieks And Scarlet Bellowings

Spring Is Like A Perhaps Hand