Believing In Hell Must Distort Every Judgement

Like The Bee Its Sting, The Promiscuous Leave Behind Them In Each Encounter Something Of Themselves By Which They Are Made To Suffer.

When Even Despair Ceases To Serve Any Creative Purpose, Then Surely We Are Justified In Suicide.

Melancholy And Remorse Forms The Deep Leaden Keel Which Enables Us To Sail Into The Wind Of Reality.

Greed, Like The Love Of Comfort, Is A Kind Of Fear.

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.