The Whole White World Is Ours.

The Heart The Heart The Heart How It Thrives On Hate.

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

When You Would Think, "what Was The Use Of It," You'll Remember Something You Can't Grasp And You'll Wonder What It Was.

(those Women Whom The Distaff No Longer Claims Nor Spun Cloth) Driven Made, Mad, Mad By Bacchus.

Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I Ache To Tempt A Chisel As A Sculptor.