In The End, There Is No End.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye

I Will Catch Christ With A Greased Worm, And When The Prince Of Darkness Stalks My Bloodstream To Its Stygian Term . . . On Water The Man-fisher Walks.

Talking About The Past Is Like A Cat's Trying To Explain Climbing Down A Ladder.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

It Is Night, And It Is Vanity, And Age Blackens The Heart Of Adam. Fear, The Yellow Chirper, Beaks Its Cage.