Blessed The Geniuses Who Know / That

There Never Was A War That Was Not Inward; I Must Fight Till I Have Conquered In Myself What Causes War.

Conscious Writing Can Be The Death Of Poetry.

Which Of Us Has Not Been Stunned By The Beauty Of An Animal's Skin Or Its Flexibility In Motion?

I'm Troubled. I'm Dissatisfied. I'm Irish.

The Enslaver Is Enslaved, The Hater, Harmed.