I'm A Poet, And I Like My

Intolerance Is Evidence Of Impotence.

The Few Love Affairs Which Had Come My Way Had Been Rather Silly And Sordid. They Had Not Revealed The Possibilities Of Love; In Fact I Had Thought It A Somewhat Overrated Pleasure, A Brief And Brutal Blindness With Boredom And Disgust Hard On Its Heels.

I'm A Poet, And I Like My Lies The Way My Mother Used To Make Them.

The Most Delicious Sensation Of All Is The Re-birth Of Healthy Human Love. Spring Coming Back To Earth!

The Quest Of The Holy Grail, The Search For The Stone Of The Philosophers-by Whatever Name We Choose To Call The Great Work-is Therefore Endless. Success Only Opens Up New Avenues Of Brilliant Possibility.