Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward

The Whole White World Is Ours.

Music Sets Up Ladders, It Makes Us Invisible, It Sets Us Apart, It Lets Us Escape; But From The Visible There Is No Escape.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

Ah Love Is Bitter And Sweet, But Which Is More Sweet The Bitterness Or The Sweetness, None Has Spoken It.

No Man Will Be Present In Those Mysteries, Yet All Men Will Kneel, No Man Will Be Potent, Important, Yet All Men Will Feel What It Is To Be A Woman.