I Would Rather Be Ashes Than Dust.

Don't Loaf And Invite Inspiration; Light Out After It With A Club, And If You Don't Get It You Will Nonetheless Get Something That Looks Remarkably Like It.

When, On The Still Cold Nights, He Pointed His Nose At A Star And Howled Long And Wolf-like, It Was His Ancestors, Dead And Dust, Pointing Nose At Star And Howling Down Through The Centuries And Through Him. And His Cadences Were Their Cadences, The Cadences Which Voiced Their Woe And What To Them Was The Meaning Of The Stillness, And The Cold, And Dark.

I Write For No Other Purpose Than To Add To The Beauty That Now Belongs To Me.

Age Is Never So Old As Youth Would Measure It.

Desire Is A Pain Which Seeks Easement Through Possession.