Writing Means Revealing Oneself To Excess.

In A Way, You Are Poetry Material; You Are Full Of Cloudy Subtleties I Am Willing To Spend A Lifetime Figuring Out. Words Burst In Your Essence And You Carry Their Dust In The Pores Of Your Ethereal Individuality.

In A Certain Sense You Deny The Existence Of This World. You Explain Life As A State Of Rest, A State Of Rest In Motion.

All Knowledge, The Totality Of All Questions And Answers, Is Contained In The Dog.

Everything You Say Is Boring And Incomprehensible, But That Alone Doesn't Make It True.

Sometimes I Think I Can Expiate All My Past And Future Sins Through The Aching Of My Bones.