When You Die Of Sorrow It's As

That's A Pretty Story,' Said Afanasievna As She Let Go Of Ansky's Genitals. 'a Pity I'm Too Old And Have Seen To Much To Believe It.' It Has Nothing To Do With Belief,' Said Ansky, 'it Has To Do With Understanding, And Then Changing.

The Moon Is Fat And The Night Air Is So Pure It Seems Edible.

If I Were To Say What I Really Think I Would Be Arrested Or Shut Away In A Lunatic Asylum. Come On, I Am Sure That It Would Be The Same For Everyone.

If Life Is Misery, Why Do We Endure It?

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.