How Some Of The Writers I Come

Tragedy Was Foresworn, In Ritual Denial Of The Ripe Knowledge That We Are Drawing Away From One Another, That We Share Only One Thing, Share The Fear Of Belonging To Another, Or To Others, Or To God; Love Or Money, Tender Equated In Advertising And The World, Where Only Money Is Currency, And Under Dead Trees And Brittle Ornaments Prehensile Hands Exchange Forgeries Of What The Heart Dare Not Surrender.

What’s Any Artist, But The Dregs Of His Work?

It Is The Bliss Of Childhood That We Are Being Warped Most When We Know It The Least.

Stupidity Is The Deliberate Cultivation Of Ignorance.

How Real Is Any Of The Past, Being Every Moment Revalued To Make The Present Possible.