Alex Like Groweth Up, Oh Yes.

Then, Brothers, It Came. Oh, Bliss, Bliss And Heaven. I Lay All Nagoy To The Ceiling, My Gulliver On My Rookers On The Pillow, Glazzies Closed, Rot Open In Bliss, Slooshying The Sluice Of Lovely Sounds. Oh, It Was Gorgeousness And Gorgeosity Made Flesh.

All Art Preserves Mysteries Which Aesthetic Philosophers Tackle In Vain.

Every Grain Of Experience Is Food For The Greedy Growing Soul Of The Artist.

The Next Morning I Woke Up At Oh Eight Oh Oh Hours, My Brothers, And As I Still Felt Shagged And Fagged And Fashed And Bashed And My Glazzies Were Stuck Together Real Horrorshow With Sleepglue, I Thought I Would Not Go To School.

Immortality Makes Sense Only When The Individual Soul Can Be Thought Of As Merging Into A Great Collective Mush Of Sainthood. If We Take Anything With Us Into The Next World, It Is Not What Survives In The Memories Of Our Relicts.