May The Devil Himself Splatter You With

The Artist Is A Kind Of Prison From Which The Works Of Art Escape.

Don't For A Moment Believe He Was Killing The Young; He Was Costuming Angels.

The World Owes Its Enchantment To These Curious Creatures And Their Fancies; But Its Multiple Complicity Rejects Them. Thistledown Spirits, Tragic, Heartrending In Their Evanescence, They Must Go Blowing Headlong To Perdition.

Youth Can Only Assert Itself Through The Conviction That Its Ventures Surpass All Others And Resemble Nothing.

There Are Poets And There Are Grownups.