Artists Are The Monks Of

There Is Nothing Fine About Being A Child: It Is Fine, When We Are Old, To Look Back To When We Were Children.

Why So Much Innuendo, Draped Like Ivy To Hide A Cesspool, When Everyone Knew The Cesspool Was There?

Perfect Behavior Is Born Of Complete Indifference. Perhaps This Is Why We Always Love Madly Someone Who Treats Us With Indifference.

The Only Reason Why We Are Always Thinking Of Our Own Ego Is That We Have To Live With It More Continuously Than With Anyone Else's.

The Face Of The Night Will Be An Old Wound That Reopens Each Evening, Impassive And Living. The Distant Silence Will Ache Like A Soul, Mute, In The Dark. We'll Speak To The Night As It's Whispering Softly.