Explain Me To Myself, You’ll

A Shrewd Person Would One Day Start A Religion Based On Coincidence, If He Hasn't Already, And Make A Million.

There's A Moral Force In A Sentence When It Comes Out Right. It Speaks The Writer's Will To Live.

Her Death Would Leave Me Scattered, Talking To Chairs And Pillows. Don't Let Us Die, I Want To Cry Out To That Fifth-century Sky Ablaze With Mystery And Spiral Light. Let Us Both Live Forever, In Sickness And Health, Feebleminded, Doddering, Toothless, Liver-spotted, Dim-sighted, Hallucinating. Who Decides These Things? What Is Out There? Who Are You?

She Became Confused When She Stepped Onto An Escalator That Wasn't Working.

People Say Great Art Is Immortal. I Say There's Something Mortal In It. It Carries A Glimpse Of Death.