Is There A Mechanism Of

The Rest Of My Days I Spend Wandering: Wondering What, Anyway, Was That Sticky Infusion, That Rank Flavor Of Blood, That Poetry, By Which I Lived?

Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower

I Start Off But I Don't Know Where I'm Going; I Try This Avenue And That Avenue, That Turns Out To Be A Dead End, This Is A Dead End, And So On. The Search Takes A Long Time And I Have To Back-track Often.

I Have Always Intended To Live Forever; But Not Until Now, To Live Now.