There Are Too Many Souls Of Wood

A Little Too Much Is Just Enough For Me.

Vivre Est Une Chute Horizontale. Life Is A Horizontal Fall.

Look Out! Be On Your Guard, Because Alone Of All The Arts, Music Moves All Around You.

The Poet, By Composing Poems, Uses A Language That Is Neither Dead Nor Living, That Few People Speak, And Few People Understand We Are The Servants Of An Unknown Force That Lives Within Us, Manipulates Us, And Dictates This Language To Us.

There Are Poets And There Are Grownups.