I Don't Think In Any

My Little Cup Brims With Tiddles.

I Have Never Seen A More Lucid, More Lonely, Better Balanced Mad Mind Than Mine.

It Is Strange How A Memory Will Grow Into A Wax Figure, How The Cherub Grows Suspiciously Prettier As Its Frame Darkens With Age-strange, Strange Are The Mishaps Of Memory.

I Was Weeping Again, Drunk On The Impossible Past.

All The Seven Deadly Sins Are Peccadilloes But Without Three Of Them, Pride, Lust, And Sloth, Poetry Might Never Have Been Born.