I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over

Song, Like A Wing, Tears Through My Breast, My Side, And Madness Chooses Out My Voice Again, Again.

I Don't Like Quintessential Certitude.

The Intellectual Is A Middle-class Product; If He Is Not Born Into The Class He Must Soon Insert Himself Into It, In Order To Exist. He Is The Fine Nervous Flower Of The Bourgeoisie.

Your Work Is Carved Out Of Agony As A Statue Is Carved Out Of Marble.

I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over Their Ground, Trees Make A Long Shadow And A Light Sound.