We Burn So Hard, But We Shed

I Have The Normal Complement Of Anxieties, Neuroses, Psychoses And Whatever Else - But I'm Absolutely Nothing Special.

We Are All Our Own Graveyards, I Believe; We Squat Amongst The Tombs Of The People We Were. If We're Healthy, Every Day Is A Celebration, A Day Of The Dead, In Which We Give Thanks For The Lives That We Lived, And If We Are Neurotic We Brood And Mourn And Wish That The Past Was Still Present.

I Dreamt A Limitless Book, A Book Unbound, Its Leaves Scattered In Fantastic Abundance On Every Line There Was A New Horizon Drawn, New Heavens Supposed; New States, New Souls.

Angels Have Very Nasty Tempers. Especially When They’re Feeling Righteous.

In This Sense Love Is Of A Different Order To Any Other Phenomenon, For It May Be Both An Event And A Sign Of That Invisible Mechanism I Spoke Of Before; Perhaps The Finest Sign, The Most Certain. In It’s Throes We Need Neither Luck Nor Science. We Are The Wheel, And The Man Who Profits By It. We Are The Star, And The Darkness It Pierces. We Are The Butterfly, Brief And Beautiful.