There Is A Time For

I'd Obviously Never Heard Of The Group, But My Ignorance In Literary Matters Is To Blame For That (every Book In The World Is Out There Waiting To Be Read By Me).

Literature Is The Product Of A Strange Rain Of Blood, Sweat, Semen, And Tears.

I Kept Having Dreams All Night. I Thought They Were Touching Me With Their Fingers. But Dreams Don't Have Fingers, They Have Fists, So It Must Have Been Scorpions.

When You Die Of Sorrow It's As If You've Broken All The Bones In Your Body, Bruised Yourself All Over, Cracked Your Skull. That's Sorrow.

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.