In Order To Write Poetry,

Life Is The Path You Beat While You Walk It.

I Dreamt -- Marvellous Error! -- That I Had A Beehive Here Inside My Heart. And The Golden Bees Were Making White Combs And Sweet Honey From My Old Failures.

The Unpublished Manuscript Is Like An Uncon-fessed Sin That Festers In The Soul, Corrupting And Contaminating It.

It Is Good Knowing That Glasses Are To Drink From; The Bad Thing Is Not To Know What Thirst Is For.

There Are A Lot Of Doubts Over The Size And Effect Of New Competitors In The Cellular Sector.