All I Want To Do Is Sit

My Life, My Life, Now I Speak Of It As Of Something Over, Now As Of A Joke Which Still Goes On, And It Is Neither, For At The Same Time It Is Over And It Goes On, And Is There Any Tense For That? Watch Wound And Buried By The Watchmaker, Before He Died, Whose Ruined Works Will One Day Speak Of God, To The Worms.

I Use The Words You Taught Me. If They Don't Mean Anything Any More, Teach Me Others. Or Let Me Be Silent.

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.

The Old Endless Chain Of Love, Tolerance, Indifference, Aversion And Disgust

That Desert Of Loneliness And Recrimination That Men Call Love.