I Throw Fresh Seeds Out. Who Knows

Who Among Us Has Not Dreamt, In Moments Of Ambition, Of The Miracle Of A Poetic Prose, Musical Without Rhythm And Rhyme, Supple And Staccato Enough To Adapt To The Lyrical Stirrings Of The Soul, The Undulations Of Dreams, And Sudden Leaps Of Consciousness.

When A Singer Puts His Hand On His Heart, It Means Usually, I Will Always Love You!

We Love Women In Proportion To Their Degree Of Strangeness To Us.

Nature Is A Temple In Which Living Columns Sometimes Emit Confused Words. Man Approaches It Through Forests Of Symbols, Which Observe Him With Familiar Glances.

You Walk On Corpses, Beauty, Undismayed.