The Morning After Woe- Tis

I Dwell In Possibility A Fairer House Than Prose More Numerous Of Windows Superior — For Doors.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers That Perches In The Soul, And Sings The Tune Without The Words, And Never Stops At All, And Sweetest In The Gale Is Heard; And Sore Must Be The Storm That Could Abash The Little Bird That Kept So Many Warm. I've Heard It In The Chilliest Land And On The Strangest Sea; Yet, Never, In Extremity, It Asked A Crumb Of Me.

Existence Has Overpowered Books. Today I Slew A Mushroom.

The Only Secret People Keep Is Immortality.

This Is My Letter To The World That Never Wrote To Me