The Skin Of All Of

The Hot Hall Full Of Painted Girls And American Soldiers Is A Saloon In Some Western Film. This Noise Drenches Us, Wakens Us To Do Something Else. It Shows Us A Lost Path.

Since It's Now Fashionable To Laugh At The Conservative French Academy, I Have Remained A Rebel By Joining It.

We Shelter An Angel Within Us. We Must Be The Guardians Of That Angel.

The Joy Of Youth Is To Disobey; But The Trouble Is That There Are No Longer Any Orders.

The World Owes Its Enchantment To These Curious Creatures And Their Fancies; But Its Multiple Complicity Rejects Them. Thistledown Spirits, Tragic, Heartrending In Their Evanescence, They Must Go Blowing Headlong To Perdition.