The Hands Are The Heart's

Egotism Is Usually Subversive Of Sagacity.

Below The Incandescent Stars / Below The Incandescent Fruit, / The Strange Experience Of Beauty; / Its Existence Is Too Much; / It Tears One To Pieces / And Each Fresh Wave Of Consciousness / Is Poison.

There Is A Great Amount Of Poetry In Unconscious Fastidiousness.

So Wary As To Disappear For Centuries And Reappear But Never Caught, The Unicorn Has Been Preserved By An Unmatched Device Wrought Like The Work Of Expert Blacksmiths.

Psychology, Which Explains Everything, Explains Nothing, And We Are Still In Doubt.