The Human Heart, As Of Course We

Great Art Is Horseshit, Buy Tacos.

There Still Might Be A Place For Us Somewhere.

It's Not The Large Things That Send A Man To The Madhouse... No, It's The Continuing Series Of Small Tragedies... Not The Death Of His Love But The Shoelace That Snaps With No Time Left.

I Remember Awakening One Morning And Finding Everything Smeared With The Color Of Forgotten Love.

I'll Get Back To The Whores And The Horses And The Booze, While There's Time.