He Threw Up His Hands And Wrote

The Soul Is Innocent And Immortal, It Should Never Die Ungodly In An Armed Madhouse.

Well, While I'm Here I'll Do The Work — And What's The Work? To Ease The Pain Of Living. Everything Else, Drunken Dumbshow.

The Apparition Of An Evil, Sick Unconscious Wild City Rose Before Me In Visible Semblance, And About The Dead Buildings In The Barren Air, The Bodies Of The Soul That Built The Wonderland Shuffled And Stalked And Stalked And Lurched In Attitudes Of Immemorial Nightmare All Around.

What If Someone Gave A War And Nobody Came?

What Came Is Gone Forever Every Time