The Night Is A Skin

Even The Contemplative Life Is Only An Effort, Nora My Dear, To Hide The Body So The Feet Won’t Stick Out.

In The Acceptance Of Depravity The Sense Of The Past Is Most Truly Captured. What Is A Ruin But Time Easing Itself Of Endurance? Corruption Is The Age Of Time.

We Are But Skin About A Wind, With Muscles Clenched Against Mortality.

I Am Not A Critic; To Me Criticism Is So Often Nothing More Than The Eye Garrulously Denouncing The Shape Of The Peephole That Gives Access To Hidden Treasure.

None Of Us Suffers As Much As We Should, Or Loves As Much As We Say. Love Is The First Lie; Wisdom The Last.