It Would Be Pleasant To Be Drunk.

Our Children Tremble In Their Teen-age Cribs, Whirling Off On A Thumb Or A Motorcycle.

I Wonder If The Artist Ever Lives His Life--he Is So Busy Recreating It.

Our Eyes Are Full Of Terrible Confessions.

My Safe, Safe Psychosis Is Broken. It Was Hard. It Was Made Of Stone. It Covered My Face Like A Mask. But It Has Cracked.

I Grow Old On My Bitterness.