He [george Orwell] Would Not

When I Write After Dark The Shades Of Evening Scatter Their Purple Through My Prose.

Melancholy And Remorse Forms The Deep Leaden Keel Which Enables Us To Sail Into The Wind Of Reality.

Imagination Is Nostalgia For The Past, The Absent It Is The Liquid Solution In Which Art Develops The Snapshot Of Reality.

Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing Exists Except Bitterness And Boredom.

Poets Arguing About Modern Poetry: Jackals Snarling Over A Dried-up Well.