At The Word Witch, We

It Is Living And Ceasing To Live That Are Imaginary Solutions. Existence Is Elsewhere.

Beauty Will Be Convulsive Or Will Not Be At All.

The Pure Playfulness Of Certain Wholly Whimsical Portions Of (charles) Cros’s Work Should Not Obscure The Fact That At The Center Of Some Of His Most Beautiful Poems A Revolver Is Leveled Straight At Us.

I Myself Shall Continue Living In My Glass House Where You Can Always See Who Comes To Call, Where Everything Hanging From The The Ceiling And On The Walls Stays Where It Is As If By Magic, Where I Sleep Nights In A Glass Bed, Under Glass Sheets, Where Who I Am Will Sooner Or Later Appear Etched By A Diamond.

Humor (is) The Process That Allows One To Brush Reality Aside When It Gets Too Distressing.