The Time I Kill Is Killing Me.

I Am Never More Myself Than In My Self-betrayals.

Nostalgia Paints A Smile On The Stony Face Of The Past.

In The Great Cities, Winter Glitters With Art And Feasting. But Poetry, The Country Cousin, Sees Only The Dearth Of The Fields.

The Nature Of Language May Determine What Most People Say, But I Always Speak My Own Meaning.

At Sixty, I Would Like To Give My Future Back Its Vistas Of Uncertainty.