The Slope Takes You To The Windmill,

Should You Ask Me If I'm Happy, I'll Answer That I'm Not.

I've Reached The Point Where Tedium Is A Person, The Incarnate Fiction Of My Own Company.

In The Very Corner Of My Soul There Is An Altar To A Different God.

The Poet Is A Pretender. / He Pretends So Completely, / That He Even Pretends That It Is Pain / The Pain He Really Feels.

We Live By Action—by Acting On Desire. Those Of Us Who Don't Know How To Want—whether Geniuses Or Beggars—are Related By Impotence.