Words Are Sexier Than Flesh.

What Worth Was A Man Who Could Not Be Haunted?

Spring, If It Lingers More Than A Week Beyond Its Span, Starts To Hunger For Summer To End The Days Of Perpetual Promise. Summer In Its Turn Soon Begins To Sweat For Something To Quench Its Heat, And The Mellowest Of Autumns Will Tire Of Gentility At Last, And Ache For A Quick Sharp Frost To Kill Its Fruitfulness. Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

I Have The Normal Complement Of Anxieties, Neuroses, Psychoses And Whatever Else - But I'm Absolutely Nothing Special.

O Little One, My Little One, Come With Me, Your Life Is Done. Forget The Future, Forget The Past. Life Is Over: Breathe Your Last.

I'm A Poet,' The Young Man Said, 'and It's My Job To Remember The Sadness Of Things.