We're Artists Too, But We

Nothing Good Ever Comes Of Love. What Comes Of Love Is Always Something Better

If Life Is Misery, Why Do We Endure It?

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.

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).

Even On The Poorest Streets People Could Be Heard Laughing. Some Of These Streets Were Completely Dark, Like Black Holes, And The Laughter That Came From Who Knows Where Was The Only Sign, The Only Beacon That Kept Residents And Strangers From Getting Lost.