The Bride, The White Bride Today A

A Poet Must Be A Professor Of The Five Senses And Must Open Doors Among Them.

Fire Is Fed By Fire. The Same Small Flame Destroys Two Stalks Of Wheat At Once.

I'm Afraid To Be On This Shore A Trunk Without Limbs, And What I Most Regret Is Not To Have Flower, Pulp, Or Clay For The Worm Of My Suffering.

Pero Yo Ya No Soy Yo Ni Mi Casa Es Ya Mi Casa. But Now I Am No Longer I, Nor Is My House Any Longer My House.

At The Heart Of All Great Art Is An Essential Melancholy.