I Stood On The Balcony

Tell Me, Is The Rose Naked Or Is That Her Only Dress? Why Do Trees Conceal The Splendor Of Their Roots? Who Hears The Regrets Of The Thieving Automobile? Is There Anything In The World Sadder Than A Train Standing In The Rain?

For Me Writing Is Like Breathing. I Could Not Live Without Breathing And I Could Not Live Without Writing.

While I'm Writing, I'm Far Away; And When I Come Back, I've Gone.

I Think It Was Very Informative, But A Lot Still Needs To Be Done.

Over Your Breasts Of Motionless Current, Over Your Legs Of Firmness And Water, Over The Permanence And The Pride Of Your Naked Hair I Want To Be, My Love, Now That The Tears Are Thrown Into The Raucous Baskets Where They Accumulate, I Want To Be, My Love, Alone With A Syllable Of Mangled Silver, Alone With A Tip Of Your Breast Of Snow.